Murder in Hadrian's Villa
Date: 2016-03-23 04:00:00+00:00

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

GAVIN CHAPPELL

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2016

Cover art by Luis Garcia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Maps provided under license from Wikimedia Commons.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2016

ISBN-10: 1530524903

ISBN-13: 978-1530524907

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

By the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

—1—

Tibur, 7th April, 122 AD

The worn old paving stones smacked to the measured tread of military issue sandals, the clink of equipment drifted on the slight breeze, burnished breastplates winked and glittered in the sunlight, and the crests of their helmets stood proud as a column of heavily armoured Praetorian guards marched through the tranquil countryside. It was a warm spring day and the guards were proceeding smartly down the Tiburtine Way, some miles outside Rome. The sky was a deep summer blue, and the olive groves and vineyards on the nearby slopes brought a musty, delicious scent to the nostrils of the young tribune riding at the head of the marching men.

The turnoff for the Imperial Villa came into view, a track leading between laurel trees to the right of the road.

The chief centurion was riding beside the tribune. ‘First time you’ve been on duty at the Villa, sir?’

Gaius Flaminius Drusus shrugged. ‘My first time as a Praetorian, First Spear,’ he said. ‘Last year I had other duties here.’

Chief Centurion Messalus—“First Spear” of Flaminius’ Praetorian cohort—nodded gruffly. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I was there.’

Flaminius recalled the events of that day, several months ago, when he had rescued the Emperor Hadrian from the assassin’s blade after a long journey from the wilds of Caledonia, half the empire away. It had been there that he—at the time, an auxiliary tribune of horse in the doomed Ninth Legion—and his grizzled colleague, Commissary Centurion Julius Probus, had first got wind of the plot.

Outlawed and on the run, accompanied by a barbarian warrior woman, Flaminius had forced his way to the emperor’s side through the labyrinth of tunnels below the grounds of the Villa, Hadrian’s so called Underworld. He’d tangled with numerous Praetorians in the process; perhaps even his new comrade if Messalus had been on duty that day.[1]

But in the hour of triumph had come terrible news—on the frontier, his legion, the Ninth, had been overwhelmed by the forces of the Caledonians and annihilated. Flaminius was lucky he had been in Italy at the time. Nightmares still troubled him. Despite his newfound status as a hero of the empire, however, he had been a man without a commission. But that had been soon to change.

With the aid of Centurion Probus, a highly influential man despite his lowly rank, Flaminius had been seconded to the Praetorian Guard, with the rank of tribune. Until now his cohort had remained stationed at the Praetorian camp just outside Rome. In the absence of the emperor—currently shoring up the defences in Britain in the wake of the loss of the Ninth—Flaminius’ duties had been light, confined to glorified sentry-go at the Imperial Palace in Rome.

Now that it was spring, the Empress Vibia Sabina and her entourage had decided to leave behind the city and its corruptions and its smoke and breathe the clean air of the countryside, here in the splendour of the Imperial Villa. The guard was changed every month, a cohort at a time, and now Flaminius’ cohort was due to take over.

‘You’ll get a hero’s welcome from the empress,’ Chief Centurion Messalus added. ‘She’s not forgotten what you did for the emperor.’

Flaminius’ only impression of the empress had been of an austere, dignified woman, as icy and distant as the Apennine peaks, showing all the emotional depth of a marble statue. The most he knew about her was that the Villa into whose grounds they were now marching had been her own property. The new buildings now appearing among the trees were her husband’s work, but the site itself was an inheritance from her family.

‘Speaking of the emperor,’ Flaminius commented as they continued to pass lawns and hedges and groves, ‘I’m surprised her imperial majesty hasn’t gone out to Britain with her husband. It looks like he’ll be staying in the province some time while the trouble with the tribes is dealt with.’

He had heard was that the Caledonians themselves were quiet, but the Selgovae were up in arms, as were the Brigantes. This last shocked him; when he had been in the country, the Brigantes had been staunch allies of Rome. His warrior woman friend Drustica belonged to a Brigantian sept. He worried for her safety.

The First Spear gave him a weary look. ‘You’re new to the Guard,’ he said. ‘You’ve not seen much of what goes on behind the scenes, nor heard the rumours, it seems. The emperor was compelled to marry by his predecessor, Trajan of Sacred Memory. It was Hadrian’s marriage to her imperial majesty that secured the succession for him, although some senators thought other people were more suited for the job.’ Chief Centurion Messalus looked about him darkly, and leant across his horse. ‘Some people claim that the marriage has never been consummated. His imperial majesty is too fond of young boys. Rumours fly round the barracks that the emperor finds comfort with catamites and sphincter artists.’

Flaminius reined his horse, and the cohort came to an abrupt and uncoordinated halt behind him—not paradeground style at all. He gestured curtly to his chief centurion and together they trotted to one side.

In the shade of a laurel, he hissed: ‘I’d not have thought a man of your standing would be a scandalmonger, First Spear! I know what loose talk you get in barracks rooms and the officers’ mess, I’ve served with the legions. But this is the Praetorian Guard. We’re the best. We’re above that kind of thing.’ He swallowed. The older man gazed back at him, unimpressed, verging on the insolent. ‘Any more of this nonsense and I’ll have you demoted to the ranks and sent to the frontier.’

‘Very well, tribune,’ Chief Centurion Messalus replied formally. ‘Reprimand understood and accepted. Shall we continue?’

After a long pause while he studied the man—whose aplomb had not apparently been affected by the rebuke—Flaminius nodded. They trotted back to the column, the centurion barked an order to the guards, and they began their progress again.

Even when the main Villa complex appeared among the trees, Flaminius still felt shocked to have heard the hard bitten centurion gossiping like a bitchy dancing girl or a eunuch chamberlain.

He didn’t want to seem like a prig. Flaminius had indulged in vicious gossip with his fellow tribunes in the mess at Eboracum[2] often enough; even mentioned a few “lady’s” names. That was different, though. Back then he’d been young and silly. He’d grown up quickly when he found himself caught up in the cloak and dagger world of the imperial secret service. Chief Centurion Messalus, on the other hand, was practically his father’s age.

Like many centurions, Messalus was a thickset man in his middle years, whose grizzled hair and bald patch was apparent on the few occasions when he took off his plumed helmet. A tough disciplinarian, he’d beaten bloody a few insubordinate backs in his time with the legions, Flaminius was sure. Discipline in the Guards, however, tended to be comparatively lax. Seldom were these elite soldiers required to face the barbarian in the field; spit and polish was their lot, guard duty in the palace and other imperial dwellings—Hadrian’s Villa in particular. It seemed that the cattiness and intrigue of the palace servants had infected at least one of its number. Flaminius would have to keep an eye out for this kind of ill-discipline.

And yet, another part of the tribune was more than a little intrigued. If he was to succeed in his mission, his secret mission, he would need blabbermouths like the First Spear. He was hunting for information, after all. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he led his men into the outer peristyle of the summer palace, where another division of guards awaited them.

The summer palace was the residence of the emperor and his retinue during the spring and summer months, a white stuccoed edifice with red tiles on its roof and marble statues adorning its box hedged, gravel pathed outer peristyle. The walls of this edifice were less massive than those of the winter palace that stood nearby. Neither of them, however, were to be confused with the Imperial Palace in Rome, the august residence that looked down on the Roman Forum haughtily from the Palatine Hill; that was an even more grandiose structure of rather longer duration.

The tribune in command saluted Flaminius from horseback. ‘Praetorian Tribune Aulus Fabricius Cotta,’ he said, ‘yielding command to Praetorian Tribune Flaminius.’

Fabricius Cotta was a tall, thin fellow with watery blue eyes, who held his plumed helmet under one arm and his long nose slightly raised as if he could smell something unpleasant. Flaminius had seen him in the tribunes’ mess back in the Praetorian camp, but they’d never spent much time together.

‘Thanks, Fabricius Cotta,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll see you and your men back at the camp. Enjoy the fleshpots of Rome, friend. I’ve kept those Subura whores warm for you.’

Tribune Fabricius Cotta looked down his nose at Flaminius. ‘No doubt,’ he lisped in distaste. ‘I’d expect as much from a man who rose from the ranks.’

Most Praetorian tribunes had obtained their positions through family influence, not by deeds of derring-do like Flaminius—he had never been a ranker, whatever Cotta said, but tribune of auxiliary horse, his rank in the Ninth Legion, was about as lowly as a commissioned officer could get. It seemed Fabricius Cotta was jealous of his fellow officer’s rise.

With no more than another salute, and a ‘Report to barracks,’ Tribune Fabricius Cotta trotted out from the outer peristyle, his men following smartly.

‘You’ve not made a friend there,’ Chief Centurion Messalus commented in a low voice. ‘Time we reported to barracks, like the man says.’

Flaminius gritted his teeth. ‘Thank you, First Spear,’ he said.

They both dismounted, flinging their reins to slaves who appeared quietly from the colonnade. Now on foot, Flaminius led them at a quick step from the peristyle and in the direction of the Praetorian barracks, whose location he remembered from his previous, rather more dramatic visit.

They passed the summer palace, marching through its gardens, which consisted of laurel groves, wide lawns and gravel paths, then along a ramparted wall where the hill sloped down towards the north. On the slope below, amid trees, was a small amphitheatre. Flaminius thought he could hear the distant roaring of lions drifting from behind its white walls.

As they crossed a lawn crossed by tree lined paths, he saw several handmaidens playing catch with a discus, dressed in brief garments, colourful thongs and breast bands, as if they were at a women’s gymnasium. Turning to see the Praetorians march past, they shrieked, several scurrying to hide themselves behind bushes, covering their mouths as they giggled.

They resembled a collection of exotic jewels, Flaminius thought; beauties from every corner of the empire and beyond; one was a blonde haired maiden who could only be from Germany or further north, another had the ebon skin and thick curling hair of an Ethiopian, and a third had the olive skin and large eyes of a Syrian or Judean.

One bolder girl stepped out from among the giggling crowd. ‘Gaius?’ she said. ‘Surely it’s my Gaius—Gaius Flaminius Drusus , I should say!’

The First Spear halted with a scowl, and told the men to avert their eyes from the athletic young women with an ‘Eyes forward!’ While his men stared woodenly forward, as if on parade, Flaminius stepped out onto the lawn. He held out his arms wide to hug the girl to his breastplate.

‘Medea!’ he exclaimed, drawing her back so he could study her. ‘Last I knew you were with your master in Britain. I knew Falco had come to Rome, but I hadn’t hoped to find you while I was on duty!’

‘On duty?’ she said. ‘What are you doing at Hadrian’s Villa?’

Her feline eyes were kohl rimmed, just as he remembered them, she drifted in a discreet cloud of Judean balsam, and her robes were best described as diaphanous. She was just as Flaminius recalled her from their last encounter, back in Eboracum.

‘I made the Praetorian Guard,’ he told her teasingly, with a wink and a gesticulation at his stolid faced companions, ‘without needing you to pull strings. Is your master visiting the Villa?’

‘My master?’ she said with a sniff. ‘Senator Falco’s ditched me. I’m a handmaiden of the Empress Sabina now.’

‘Is that so?’ Flaminius leant closer. ‘Tell me, have you heard anyone discussing the murder of Rufinus Crassus?’

‘The senator who tried to kill the emperor?’ Medea asked. ‘He died of a sudden distemper, they say.’

‘After I stopped his assassination attempt, yes,’ Flaminius murmured. ‘Medea, can you keep a secret? Between you and me, I’m investigating his death. Don’t tell anyone, will you?’

Her eyes widened. ‘How exciting! So you’re still working for Centurion Probus?’ But she shook her head. ‘No, I’ve heard nothing. Still, I’ll see what I can find out. Now quick, you’d better report to barracks or people will suspect something.

‘Please don’t mention finding us girls exercising so brazenly,’ she added. ‘The empress expects us to be supple and nimble, but she complains about immodesty if we exercise outside. I don’t know why. Your men turned their gaze, didn’t they?’

She darted away with her fellow handmaidens towards a side door to the summer palace. Much happier for the chance encounter, Flaminius signed to the patiently waiting Praetorians and led them onwards.

Meeting Medea here had been a lucky chance. Previously she had been concubine to Senator Falco, who Flaminius was certain had been part of the conspiracy against the emperor. Falco had been governor of Britain with three legions at his command, and on the murder of Hadrian by his fellow senator Rufinus Crassus, he would have led his troops south to Rome to seize power. But when Rufinus Crassus was found dead, the coup had come to nothing, and all had been overshadowed by the disastrous loss of the Ninth Legion in a Caledonian attack.

Falco’s involvement could not be proved, except by the unwritten testimony of a renegade druid who had overheard everything but died soon after reporting to Probus. Nobody admitted responsibility for Rufinus Crassus’ death, but someone had murdered him at night while he was a prisoner, unless this story of a convenient ‘sudden distemper’ had a shred of truth in it.

At least, now that Medea had entered the empress’ employment, Flaminius had a friend here.

Leaving his men to settle into their new duties under the watchful eyes of the lesser centurions, Flaminius went, accompanied by Chief Centurion Messalus, to report his arrival to her imperial majesty.

A short walk through the colonnade and across another garden took them to the summer palace. Two Praetorians accompanied them, to wait as sentries outside in the main portico. Imperial chamberlains led Flaminius and Chief Centurion Messalus into the presence of the empress herself.

The Empress Vibia Sabina reclined on a well upholstered couch in an airy, spacious atrium. Beside her was a rippling stone pool over which played a fountain and in whose waters darted fish. The shadows of the water rippled across a ceiling depicting a scene of fauns and nymphs in Arcadia.

She rose as the two guards entered, and greeted them.

A woman in her mid-forties, she wore a long green stola of rich linen, and her hair, on which lay a golden circlet, was in an elaborate, old fashioned coiffure. Her patrician face was grave, her eyes fierce and dark. Her downturned mouth suggested disapproval at these heavily armoured forms intruding into her tranquil dwelling. She had all the gravitas of a Roman matron and yet at the same time it seemed that beneath it was all the untamed passion of a barbarian. Flaminius could see that she was a formidable woman.

‘Welcome once again to my home, Tribune Flaminius,’ the empress said. ‘The saviour of my husband is always welcome. Please, not so formal. Sit.’

A little uncomfortable, Flaminius perched on a nearby couch. No such courtesy was extended to Chief Centurion Messalus, and with a nod he dismissed the man. The empress looked up as the centurion went to wait in the archway and Flaminius thought he saw them exchange glances, as if they were familiar with each other. The centurion must be a regular sight both here and at the Imperial Palace in Rome. Again Flaminius wondered if he had been here on the day of the assassination attempt.

‘I am so glad that such a hero has joined my husband’s guards,’ Sabina added warmly. ‘And so young! Most of the men who join the Praetorians are veterans from the legions. It’s refreshing to see a youth promoted so rapidly—but of course, you certainly deserve it.’ She paused, and added delicately, ‘I was so sorry to hear about your old legion, the Ninth.’

As Flaminius thanked her, voices came from within the palace and into the chamber strode a bald, bearded, armoured man in his late forties, wearing a splendid red cloak. He was talking to a stoop backed man a few years older, who wore the toga of an equestrian and carried a scroll under one arm. The armoured man carried a plumed helmet under one arm and as he came in he gave the empress a broad, frank grin and a sketchy salute, while his companion nodded deferentially. Sabina gave them a secret, amused smile, and glanced from one man to another.

Flaminius sprang from his seat and came sharply to attention. He recognised the first newcomer as Septicius Clarus, Praetorian Prefect, one of the joint commanders of the Praetorian Guard. He had been left in Rome while his colleague Marcius Turbo and two cohorts of the Guard travelled to Britain with the emperor.

Septicius Clarus grinned at Flaminius, and indicated that he should be at ease. ‘Greetings, tribune. How does the country air find you? Makes a change from Rome, eh?’

Flaminius had met his superior officer several times since accepting his new posting, but never before had the man been anything but coldly formal. It seemed that the country air found Septicius Clarus very well.

‘Greetings, prefect,’ Flaminius replied. ‘It’s a pleasure to come here again, under less hectic circumstances than my last visit.’

He looked inquiringly at Septicius Clarus’ companion, who smiled back faintly but seemed more interested in the empress.

‘My old friend Suetonius Tranquillus,’ Septicius Clarus explained affably. ‘Imperial secretary, librarian, historian. He doesn’t say much, but when he does you can’t shut him up, the old bore. Still, he has hidden depths.’

‘Indeed he does,’ said Sabina, hiding a yawn, and not rising to greet the two newcomers. ‘Both of you do. You’ve met the tribune professionally, of course, prefect. Suetonius Tranquillus, may I introduce you to Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus , the renowned and heroic rescuer of my husband?’

Suetonius Tranquillus studied Flaminius before speaking. The secretary was in his early fifties and had a craggy, introspective face, pale skin from spending too much time indoors, and a full beard like a Greek philosopher. There was an ink stain on the right side of his toga and his hair was needed combing.

‘So, this is the famous tribune, is it?’ he said at last in pompous tones. ‘I have indeed heard of Flaminius. I wasn’t present when the tribune so daringly rescued the emperor from certain death, but even in my offices word reached me of Flaminius’ deeds.’

Flaminius thanked him politely. He had never met the secretary before, though he had heard of him.

Sabina patted the couch beside her. ‘Come and sit with me, Suetonius Tranquillus,’ she said. ‘Say something clever. He’s so witty, you know,’ she told the company at large. ‘Composes wonderful epigrams.’

Suetonius Tranquillus sat down but said nothing. Either he was busy composing an epigram, or else he was tongue tied, but Flaminius saw him gazing sidelong at the empress. Septicius Clarus was not invited to sit. He stood by the steps leading outside, his helmet clasped under his arm, eyes narrow as he fanned his face with a scarf. Detecting a certain atmosphere in the chamber, Flaminius wished he was elsewhere. Even the crusty company of Chief Centurion Messalus would be preferable.

He heard a patter of footsteps and a giggling of voices from the passageway, and a group of handmaidens and other hangers-on came flocking in, clustering round the empress and cooing.

It was the same group he had met in the grounds, although they were now more modestly clad in stolas like the empress. Medea was among them. She offered him a weak, embarrassed laugh and joined the others with the empress. Also accompanying them was a much older woman, who had dark tangled hair and withered skin. Alone of her companions, she wore no cosmetics.

‘Girls,’ said the empress severely, ‘you’re late. Now sit down and tell me all about how you have been spending the morning.’

As the conversation turned distinctly feminine, Suetonius Tranquillus came to sit with Flaminius, clearly having had trouble with his epigrams. He had also not visited the bathhouse recently.

‘Women,’ the imperial secretary said. ‘Gaggle of hens. Can’t stand ’em—except our own dear empress, of course. I was married once. Worst time of my life. You’d not be married yet, young chap like you?’

Absently, Flaminius’ eyes strayed to Medea’s slim form, as she sat laughing beside the empress. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not as yet. My duties have come between me and marriage. I’m sure I’ll settle down sooner or later.’

Suetonius Tranquillus disapproved. ‘Love ’em and leave ’em,’ he advised the tribune. ‘Don’t let them enmesh you in their web. Women have their uses, but if you let them get their claws into you they’ll run your life for you, run it into the ditch. A man’s best on his own.’

The empress called over to them. ‘Surely you’re not boring the young man with your dreary opinions, Suetonius Tranquillus? Let’s hear a bit more about you, tribune. Are you happy in your career as a soldier? Is it what you dreamed of as a boy?’

All the handmaidens turned and made cow eyes at him, much to his embarrassment.

‘I joined up because it was expected of me,’ Flaminius confessed. ‘Some people think I’m capable of more.’ Medea seemed to be making meaningful eye contact over the empress’ shoulder, but he glanced away.

‘But what would you most like to be?’ Sabina persisted. ‘Surely not a deskbound penman like this old bore?’ She gestured at Suetonius Tranquillus, who bridled, but said nothing.

‘Gaius is a clever man,’ Medea assured her. ‘He’s destined for great things. Perhaps he should study for the law.’

Sabina looked inquiringly at her handmaiden’s use of the tribune’s first name. ‘You’ve met?’ she asked. ‘But of course!—your former master governed Britain when Tribune Flaminius was with the Ninth Legion. Before our friend here saved my husband from that odious Rufinus Crassus. If only the man hadn’t died, he could have exercised the tribune’s legal skills when the senator was tried for his crimes!’

‘I wonder how that happened,’ Medea said thoughtfully. ‘How he came to die, I mean.’

Flaminius gave her a quick frown. She was being too obvious.

‘A sudden distemper, wasn’t it?’ said Sabina. ‘Perhaps there is someone who can do a better job of answering that question. My personal physician and perfumer, Erichtho of the Marsi.’

From among the handmaidens stalked the tall, leathery skinned woman Flaminius had seen earlier, dressed in diaphanous robes like the rest, but to Flaminius’ mind better suited to the black rags of a votary of Hecate. She looked a sight more like the sorceress Medea of the myths than Medea did, that was for certain.

Old and withered, she conveyed the impression someone had hung her up for years in the roof beams of a hillside hut up in the Apennines to dry in the smoke. Her thick black hair was a tangle that fell into her eyes, but did not conceal them: they were black and piercing. Evil eyes, Flaminius caught himself thinking with a superstitious shudder.

‘Well?’ Sabina prompted her. ‘You saw the senator’s body before it was taken away for cremation by his grieving family—grieving twice over due to the shame he had brought on them. How do you explain his death?’

‘It certainly looked like it could be a distemper, although some suggested he took poison,’ said Erichtho of the Marsi at last. Her voice surprised Flaminius by being as pure and clear as a mountain pool. She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he had confederates who gave him a fatal draught to take in just such an eventuality.’

Sabina turned to Flaminius with a laugh.

‘A fanciful breed,’ she said. ‘But a good physician for all my aches and little ailments.’ She smiled slyly. ‘I believe she also has been known to mix love philtres for my handmaidens. You know of the Marsi?’

Flaminius nodded. They were primitive hill dwellers, living in wandering tribes up in the pine forests of the mountains. A band of them had been yearly visitors to his father’s little farm in Latium. They had tried to sell charms and herbal remedies, some of which were even said to work. His father paid them a small stipend to go on their way and not trouble his household. Flaminius doubted if Erichtho had ever taken the Hippocratic Oath.

‘They make good soldiers, the men,’ commented the prefect, who had stood in a stony silence while all this was going on. ‘Had a few in my cohort when I was a young tribune, back in the Dacian Wars. The other men wouldn’t go near them, fearing witchcraft and curses!’

‘Oh, enough chatter of poison and witchcraft!’ Sabina said. ‘How the conversation has taken such a morbid turn I will never know. Tribune Flaminius!’

He rose and stood to attention.

‘You are dismissed,’ the empress told him. ‘No doubt you have work to do. Myself, I have a little headache coming on. I shall be closeted with my physician for a while. The rest of you can amuse yourselves.’

Flaminius departed. Chief Centurion Messalus was waiting him outside with the two guards, and he fell into step as the tribune crossed the gravel path to the Praetorian barracks. Entering the building Flaminius dismissed his men, went to his new office and began to settle in.

The tribune’s office overlooked the peristyle at the back of the palace. Looking up from some tedious paperwork some hours later as night was falling, Flaminius was surprised to see Sabina again, showing no sign of indisposition, walking arm in arm with Septicius Clarus.

A movement from the depths of the shrubbery attracted the tribune’s gaze, and as the pair walked out of sight into the palace, Flaminius saw Suetonius Tranquillus step from the bushes. He watched the man and woman until they were out of sight. Then he turned and strode away, muttering inaudibly. It was too dark to fully make out his expression, but his stance was not that of a tranquil man.

Later that evening, Flaminius inspected the barracks—ostensibly as part of his duties, in reality to view the scene of Rufinus Crassus’ death, and gauge the chances of an assassin reaching an important prisoner like the senator. Chief Centurion Messalus accompanied him.

‘Which cell was Rufinus Crassus imprisoned in?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Cell?’ said the centurion. ‘We don’t have any cells in the Villa. We’re not accustomed to imprisoning the emperor’s family or guests.’

Flaminius gave him a look. Why was he being so obstructive? ‘Rufinus Crassus was imprisoned,’ he said. ‘And he died in his cell.’

‘He was locked in a storeroom we use as a cell.’ The centurion looked oddly at Flaminius. ‘Not much demand for cells. Sometimes a drunken Praetorian is confined, to cool his heels. But the senator was not your average detainee. He was tough enough to withstand several hours of questioning without blabbing. The interrogators were certain that they would break him in the end, of course, but the emperor didn’t want him tortured, and he allowed him a few hours of sleep. The interrogations were set to continue in the morning.’

‘And then this tough man suddenly died...’ Flaminius mused. ‘Who found his body?

‘I did, sir,’ the centurion replied. ‘He lay half on and half off his pallet. His face was a horror to see.’ He looked curiously at the tribune. ‘There’s only one way into the room and I was on guard over it. He wasn’t poisoned, as I heard the witch Erichtho suggest to you before. We searched him before locking him up and took everything away from him except his tunic. He had no poison. He must have died of a sudden distemper, like they say.’

‘Thanks,’ Flaminius said, uncomfortable with the man’s unrelenting gaze. ‘Carry on, centurion.’

The centurion departed the barracks and Flaminius walked the length of the passage, nodding a quiet greeting to the Praetorians on duty. He tried the door to the impromptu cell and learnt that it was locked, so he turned to the nearest guard.

‘Unlock this door,’ he ordered. The guard hurried to get the keys.

As soon as the door was unlocked, Flaminius entered. The room was high roofed, cool after the heat of the evening, but dank with it. One small, narrow window high up in the back wall barely illuminated the gloom. He climbed up onto a bench-like shelf on the far wall and examined it. There was no way to open it, and as far as he could see it was a long way up the exterior wall of the barracks. No chance of anyone slipping a poison pill to the prisoner that way.

He sat down on the bench and looked cautiously around him. There was nothing here that could shed any light on the senator’s mysterious death. He realised he shouldn’t stay here too long or questions would be asked.

Probus had pulled strings to get Flaminius promoted to the Praetorians; he believed that, undercover, the tribune had the best chance to learn what had happened to the senator. It was obvious that someone else had been implicated in the plot against Hadrian, more than one most probably, a conspiracy! Someone had given an order and someone had entered the room and killed Rufinus Crassus to stop his mouth—how? With poison?

His thoughts turned to Erichtho, the empress’ woman physician and perfumer, a witch of the infamous Marsi tribe. Could she be behind the murder? But why would a servant of the empress have had the senator poisoned when he had tried to murder the empress’ husband—and would no doubt have been tried and executed? Besides, Messalus said Rufinus Crassus hadn’t been poisoned, and he was the one who’d found the body.

The trail had gone cold long ago. It was too late to take it up again. He had come on a fool’s errand. If he had begun his investigations straight after the death, something could have been learnt, but that hadn’t been possible in the wake of the massacre of the Ninth. But now Rufinus Crassus was months dead, not to mention cremated, it would be impossible to find out if he had been poisoned, or had died of other causes.

The original investigation had been scanty, to say the least—which was suspicious. But now, at this late date, how could Probus expect him to find any clues in this dark labyrinth of murder?

About to leave, Flaminius noticed some words scratched into the side of the bench. It seemed unlikely that a guard imprisoned for drunkenness would be literate enough to attempt graffiti. He felt excited. Was this a message left by Rufinus Crassus? He bent down to read it, then frowned, baffled.

TFSBQJT DTQRF ZPV DMBSVT.

Whoever had written this had been literate, perhaps, but surely they had been drunk, if not mad. Or was it another language? He peered at the scratched inscription again. The scrawl was unpronounceable, worse than the British tongue he had learnt when he was with the legions. He tried to read the graffiti backwards, but it made no sense that way either.

Flaminius straightened up, feeling disappointed, and left the room.

Stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, he saw a familiar slim figure scurrying through the dark towards him. Medea paused, noticing him in turn, then beckoned him into the shadow of a tall laurel. Hoping no one was watching, he crossed the lawn and joined her. She looked distraught.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Suetonius Tranquillus is leaving,’ she said. ‘He quarrelled with the Praetorian Prefect—they’ve been friends for years! He went to the empress and demanded permission to return to Rome... Oh, but here he comes!’

Suetonius Tranquillus appeared, striding along a gravel path followed by two slaves who carried his luggage and another holding a torch. The imperial secretary halted, spotting Flaminius and Medea lurking in the shade of the laurel. Flaminius stepped out and hailed him cheerily.

‘I’m leaving, as I’m sure you know,’ Suetonius Tranquillus told him bitterly. ‘The empress has given her permission. Regretfully, I’m sure, but I won’t stay in this place a moment longer…’

He came closer and put a hand on Flaminius’ shoulder. ‘You seem a sensible young fellow. And while his imperial majesty is away in Britain, no one else round here will be able to keep order...’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Flaminius said, ‘but has there been a disturbance tonight? Should I call out the Guard?’

Suetonius Tranquillus drew himself up. ‘No disturbance, more an outrage. I won’t say any more, for propriety’s sake. But I urge you, young man, do your duty and keep your eyes open. You won’t hear me say a word against your commander. But that’s all I’ll say.’ Footsteps and voices approached from nearby, and Suetonius Tranquillus scowled. ‘I’d better be going.’

Flaminius turned to see the Prefect, Septicius Clarus, striding down the path, arms spread in a placatory gesture. Behind him was the empress and several of her entourage, flanked by slaves carrying torches.

Without stopping to speak with them, Suetonius Tranquillus strode off into a courtyard where a litter awaited, leaving his slaves to carry his belongings after him. The group halted at Flaminius’s side as Suetonius Tranquillus’ litter bearers carried him away.

After the litter had vanished round a corner, a tall, cadaverous, clean shaven old man appeared from the shadows of a garden. The empress hurried to speak with him. Both stood talking, looking in the direction Suetonius Tranquillus had taken. The man looked oddly familiar.

‘Who’s he?’ Flaminius was forced to ask Septicius Clarus. Medea had vanished into the shadows on the arrival of her mistress.

‘That’s Senator Ursus Servianus,’ the Prefect said absently, watching the couple speaking in hushed tones. ‘Brother in law of the emperor.’

Now it came back to him. Julius Ursus Servianus had been present when Flaminius foiled Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt. The senator had tried to discourage the emperor from interrogating Crassus, and the following morning, the would-be assassin had been found dead. Ursus Servianus was a member of the imperial family, of course, the emperor’s own brother in law. There was nothing suspicious about him being at the Villa.

‘But why the interest, tribune?’ the Prefect added as Ursus Servianus and the empress went into the palace, followed by the entourage.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Oh, no reason,’ he said. ‘No reason at all. Just curious.’

‘Return to your duties, tribune,’ said the Prefect sharply, with a disapproving look. ‘And a word of advice: keep your nose out of matters that don’t concern you. It could have unfortunate consequences for your career.’ He gave Flaminius a frank look, turned on his heel and followed the others into the palace.

Flaminius watched him leave, pondering what he had said. Something had been going on here tonight that he didn’t understand. And he didn’t like it. There was another mystery here, and it didn’t involve Rufinus Crassus’ murder.

Or did it?

—2—

Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 8th April, 122 AD

The following morning found Flaminius going about his official duties as officer of the watch, diligently organising duty rosters for his men, setting the password for the day—Vigilance!—and despatching patrols to tour the gardens, without impinging on the daily life of the empress or her guests. He also had guards stationed at several key points: outside the hall of the philosophers, in the library courtyard, at the hostel, and outside the barracks.

All these were standard duties, and he had done much the same the previous day. This morning, however, he was determined to have guards scattered throughout the Villa. He had also given them orders to report anything unusual.

‘The empress will think you’re spying on her,’ Chief Centurion Messalus warned him gruffly, ‘her and her guests. They won’t take kindly to this, guards everywhere. Have you cleared it with the Prefect?’

‘May I remind you, centurion,’ Flaminius said, ‘that I’m officer in command? The Prefect is here as a guest of the empress, not on duty. He has not told me that he wants to be consulted on such trivial matters as the duty roster.’

The centurion grunted and departed from the office. Flaminius saw him shortly afterwards, strolling across the peristyle of the palace. Off to make trouble, he guessed with a heavy heart; going over his tribune’s head like a spoiled brat running to his big brother. No doubt the Prefect would disapprove of Flaminius’ orders.

Flaminius wished his job here really was nothing more than posting guards and sending out patrols. Working undercover was proving more problematic than he had imagined.

Deciding it was time he made himself scarce, he collected two Praetorians from the guardroom and left the barracks before Messalus returned with their superior officer.

Rounding the colonnade of the palace’s outer peristyle, he made his way to the pharmacy. The two guards on duty saluted him smartly.

‘Anything to report?’ he said. They shook their heads.

‘That witch is in residence,’ one guard said. ‘She of the Marsi.’

‘I’d better pop in on her,’ Flaminius said. ‘Oh, and in future, don’t speak like that about imperial servants or I’ll put you on a charge.’

The guard snapped to attention. Flaminius told his own escort to remain with the others, then entered the pharmacy building.

He found Erichtho in a cool, gloomy storeroom, on her knees, searching through rack after rack of small green glass phials. ‘So this is the poison store,’ he said jovially.

The withered old woman looked up.

‘You’re pleased to joke, tribune,’ she said irritably. ‘They are perfumes that I blend for the empress and her handmaidens. These contain nothing but alum, iris and rose petals. Nothing toxic. I know the reputation my people have amongst city folk, but I am hardly Locusta.’

‘Who?’ Flaminius said, not getting the reference.

‘Locusta,’ she replied. ‘Nero’s own personal poisoner. Don’t you know any history?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘My tutor taught me history, but it was all ancient stuff. I liked the Spartans, and Alexander the Great… A lot of it was a bit dry, though—the Roman Republic bored me rigid—so my tutor concentrated on grammar and logic and rhetoric, useful things like that. I don’t really know much that happened after they murdered Julius Caesar. That’s where he gave up on me.’

‘If you really want to know the story, ask the imperial secretary,’ she said impatiently. ‘He takes a ghoulish glee in retelling that and many other lurid stories. Of course, that sort of thing doesn’t go on these days, not under this new breed of emperor.’ Flaminius thought she sounded oddly wistful. She rose to her feet and dusted herself down. ‘How may I assist you, tribune?’

He made himself pause awkwardly. ‘I understand you mix love philtres…’ She raised her eyebrows. Dexterously, he spun a yarn about problems consummating a love affair, surprising himself by managing to blush quite convincingly. After listening curtly, she prescribed him a suitable potion. Having had an opportunity to demonstrate her expertise, she seemed to warm to the young tribune.

Flaminius took the slim, narrow, dark green phial from her and studied its label, while Erichtho noted its dispensation down on a wax writing tablet. It would be charged to the Guards’ account.

‘You think that Rufinus Crassus took poison?’ he asked. ‘The empress seemed to dismiss the idea.’

Erichtho regarded him calmly. ‘The senator died suddenly in the night,’ she said. ‘From what I saw, he was a healthy man, so a sudden distemper would be unusual… but he had incurred great shame. Isn’t suicide in such situations the Roman way? He had no sword to fall on when he was confined, but perhaps he had poison about his person. Anyway, shortly afterwards I found that some of my cantharadin was missing.’

‘Cantharidin?’ Flaminius frowned uneasily. She hadn’t mentioned this earlier. ‘That’s what it says here!’ he added, alarmed, indicating the phial. ‘You said it’s a love philtre!’ Was this witch trying to poison him?

‘In the right dosage,’ Erichtho explained, ‘it excites the male member and can help overcome precisely the symptoms you have described. However, too high a dose causes blistering, abdominal pains, melancholy, nausea, haemorrhage, and even death. Perhaps such was the fate of the senator.’

‘You saw the body?’ Flaminius said. ‘Did it show signs of cantharadin poisoning?’

‘I saw his body,’ she said, ‘but I wasn’t able to examine it. It was sent almost at once to his shamed family for cremation and burial. But his face—in death it was not that of a man who had died easily.’ She paused. ‘Why the interest, tribune?’

Flaminius had been clumsy. He had awoken her suspicions without getting any more information than he had from Chief Centurion Messalus—except, an apparent contradiction; she thought the senator had been poisoned, Messalus didn’t. All this was getting him nowhere, though. After all, she could well have been the poisoner herself, if there had been one. She had the means, even if her motive wasn’t obvious. But he hardly knew her. Who could guess what motivated a Marsi witch?

‘Oh, no reason at all, really,’ he said. ‘It just interested me. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? And, well, I was instrumental in Rufinus Crassus being arrested. I suppose we’ll never know.’ He waggled the green phial. ‘I’ll go and give this a try, shall I? Many thanks.’

He hurried from the pharmacy, feeling glad Probus hadn’t been there to see him making such an ass of himself.

Halfway back to the barracks, the possibility returned to him that Erichtho could have been the poisoner. But why. For her own reasons? Or was she working for someone else? She had said that some of her cantharadin had been missing. Was that true? If so, who had stolen it? Unless this had been a lie to cover up her own villainy.

Maybe it had been taken by a man who genuinely was having problems with their manhood, and hadn’t the gall to ask her for help to her face. Or more likely someone who wanted to shut Rufinus Crassus’ mouth before he betrayed his co-conspirators. Falco had been in on the plot, but he had been up in Caledonia at the time. Someone else was at the back of all this.

When he got back to barracks, Flaminius went to his office and placed the phial on his desk. As he was sitting down, there was a knock at the door and he went to open it. Chief Centurion Messalus stood there, and at his side was Prefect Septicius Clarus, looking impatient.

‘There you are, tribune,’ the prefect said. ‘What’s this about you demanding reports from your patrols?’ He turned to Chief Centurion Messalus. ‘Dismissed, centurion.’

Flaminius took a deep breath. Deferring the argument had not improved things, it never did. He felt like a small child who had got into trouble and now had to face up to the consequences.

Smiling cordially, he led Septicius Clarus into the office. ‘Surely it’s normal for the officer in charge to want reports from his men?’ he said after the Prefect refused to sit. ‘I’m in charge of security. I need to know what is happening.’

‘You do not need to know about the private business of the empress and her guests!’ Septicius Clarus shouted. He paced up and down. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, young fellow. If you want to get on in the Guard, you’ve got to follow the rules—the written ones and the unwritten ones.’ He became paternal. ‘You can’t rely on your previous heroism to make you the golden boy forever, lad. I’ve already had to speak to you about poking your nose in where it’s not wanted, haven’t I?’

He stared curiously at the desk and the phial Flaminius had lain on top of a sheaf of reports. Picking up the phial, he studied it, apparently intrigued. He chuckled to himself.

He added, ‘The empress is making a return visit on her in-laws in the city. You and your men will accompany us on the road.’

Flaminius saluted smartly. ‘Sir!’ he said. Septicius Clarus gave him an amused look, replaced the phial, and departed without further words.

Flaminius grinned. Septicius Clarus had softened on recognising the phial’s contents. Perhaps he had been in need of the same treatment in the past: an eager young tribune no longer seemed so much a threat if he couldn’t perform as a lover.

As it happened, a return to Rome would be convenient, if Flaminius could get a bit of spare time.

—3—

Rome, 8th April, 122 AD

That afternoon Flaminius and his Praetorians escorted several carriages containing the empress and her entourage down the Tiburtine Way to Rome. Leaving an honour guard at the Imperial Palace, where the emperor’s sister Paulina was holding a dinner party, Flaminius and his men returned to their barracks in the Praetorian Camp. Prefect Septicius Clarus also accompanied them, explaining to the empress that he would return to the palace after concluding some business in his headquarters.

As soon as his men were settled in the cohort barracks, Flaminius left them in the hands of Chief Centurion Messalus. Hastily changing into a toga, he hurried down into the hot, bustling city.

Passing the Roman Forum and the Colosseum he climbed the Caelian Hill to the Castra Peregrina. A smaller barracks than the mighty Praetorian Camp, it was the central base for the Commissary of the legions. The innocuous name concealed their true identity as the imperial secret service.

He found Centurion Probus in his office at the back of the building. The door was open and the centurion was bent over a sheaf of reports, fanning his face in the heat. Grinning, Flaminius reached out and rapped on the door. Probus glanced up calmly.

‘Ah, Tribune Flaminius,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could drag yourself away from your duties at the Imperial Villa. Shut the door behind you and take a stool.’

Flaminius did as he was bade. Probus was a short but massively built man about Messalus’ age, balding, with iron grey hair at the back of his head, and an aquiline nose that had been broken at some point. He finished reading his report and put it away to one side. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What progress have you made?’

‘I’ve inspected the place where Rufinus Crassus died,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Nothing there of note, except an incomprehensible inscription.’

‘You noted it down, of course,’ Probus said.

Flaminius stared at him. He shook his head. ‘No, it was gibberish. Maybe the senator scratched it when he was delirious. He was poisoned, it seems.’

‘Poisoned, was he?’ Probus asked. ‘What did the inscription say?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘It was… gibberish. Unreadable.’

‘Probably in cipher. You should have noted it down. Have I taught you nothing?’

‘The important thing is, he could have been poisoned,’ Flaminius said, ‘and I think I might know who provided the poison.’ Hurriedly, he told the centurion all that he had found out. Probus laughed when Flaminius told him the cover story he had used to talk with Erichtho.

‘So the senator died in a locked room,’ Probus said. ‘You say of poison. But who administered it? This Marsian witch? But why?’ He brooded for a moment. ‘Who was first on the scene?’

‘My First Spear,’ Flaminius replied. ‘He was on watch all night. No one gained access to the prisoner. There’s a small window high up in the wall, but there’s no way to open it and it would be difficult to get up there from the outside without a ladder. Someone would have noticed that.’

‘So if he was poisoned, he could only be poisoned by someone with access to the prisoner,’ Probus said.

Flaminius sighed. Had the old fool not been listening? ‘Chief Centurion Messalus said that no one had access, because he was on guard all night.’ Probus lifted an eyebrow at the centurion’s name but he made no comment. ‘Problem is,’ Flaminius went on, ‘he says that the prisoner wasn’t poisoned… but how would he know? Erichtho said she found that some of her cantharadin was missing.’

‘No one had access to the prisoner,’ Probus said, ‘except the guard on duty, who was first on the scene.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what happened in these parts when Hadrian became emperor?’

Flaminius shrugged. This was hardly relevant. ‘I was in Britain at the time. But I suppose there was a ceremony.’

Probus nodded. ‘I was in Britain too,’ he reminded the tribune, ‘but obviously I paid closer attention to imperial affairs. Yes, there was a ceremony, of course there was, when the emperor entered the city, but I’m talking about what happened before that. The emperor succeeded his adoptive father Trajan…’

‘…of Sacred Memory,’ Flaminius said mock piously. Probus gave him an old fashioned look.

‘Hadrian succeeded Trajan,’ he repeated, ‘while still at the wars in the East. The emperor took his time about returning to the city, having a number of rebellions out east to crush along the way. But he also got wind of a conspiracy against him in Rome, among the senators. He sent orders to Attianus, who was Praetorian Prefect back then.

‘In response to his orders, Attianus unleashed a reign of terror, despatching Praetorian assassins to kill any senators who had shown enmity to Hadrian while he was still a private citizen. No trial, no evidence. Attianus waded in their blood.’

Memory blossomed. ‘Oh yes,’ Flaminius said. ‘I heard something about it in the mess, senators of consular rank being cut down. People said that the new emperor was shaping up to be as bad as any of his predecessors. In Britain they did, anyway.’

‘They said the same throughout the empire,’ Probus replied. ‘One of Hadrian’s first acts on returning to Rome was to have Attianus dismissed—a man who had been his friend and adviser since his youth—but it did not rid him of the taint of tyranny his actions had given him. And, on the empress’ suggestion, the relative nonentity Septicius Clarus was appointed in his place...’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius. He thought he knew what Probus was getting at in his longwinded way. ‘So that’s how Septicius Clarus became Prefect—through the empress’ favour. It would explain why they’re so terribly friendly…’ He told Probus about seeing the pair of them arm in arm, and how while watching them he had found himself watching Suetonius Tranquillus, also spying on them. And how Suetonius Tranquillus had returned to Rome in deep dudgeon shortly afterwards.

‘He spoke to me before he went,’ Flaminius added, ‘but he wouldn’t tell me why he was leaving.’

Probus grunted. ‘I might take a stroll by the imperial secretary’s offices at some point,’ he said, ‘to have a chat with him. Sounds like he knows something that could prove useful. But I didn’t tell you that story to explain how Septicius Clarus became your commanding officer. There’s one little fact I haven’t shared with you.

‘I have access to confidential files, naturally, as part of my work here. That’s why I know so much about these events. I don’t really blame you for not having the full story, since much of it was kept from public ears. Something that very few people know are the names of the Praetorian assassins who carried out the killings. But records are always kept somewhere. I have seen a list giving the names of the senators killed and the Praetorians who killed them. And next to the name of one Senator Nigrinus it is noted that his killer was a Praetorian centurion called Messalus.’

‘Chief Centurion Messalus?’ Flaminius was shocked. ‘My First Spear?’

‘Who was first on the scene of the murder of Rufinus Crassus,’ Probus reminded him.

‘No, that can’t be right,’ Flaminius argued. ‘Chief Centurion Messalus was on guard all night…’

‘Yes,’ Probus said, ‘giving him several hours to murder the senator before raising the alarm in the morning. No wonder he denies Rufinus Crassus was poisoned.’

Flaminius rose decisively. ‘I’ll arrest him at once and have him interrogated.’

Probus flapped a hand at the tribune to take his seat again.

‘We don’t know any of this for certain,’ he said testily. ‘We can’t charge around making groundless accusations or we’ll risk losing all credibility. We need proof! Besides, even if we identify him as the killer of Rufinus Crassus, that’s immaterial. The senator was an assassin himself, if a failed one—thanks to you, tribune.’

He flashed the tribune a bleak smile and Flaminius preened himself a little.

‘Unfortunately, while you and I halted the conspiracy between us, we failed to root out the conspirators entirely. Yes, Rufinus Crassus was stopped, while Falco lost face and is unlikely to be trusted in future, but we need to know who was behind both of the plotters. If Chief Centurion Messalus was also part of the conspiracy, at least insofar as obeying orders to poison Rufinus Crassus, before the senator could break under questioning and reveal the names of his co-conspirators...’

‘You think Chief Centurion Messalus will lead us to the heart of the conspiracy?’ Flaminius interrupted. ‘You think he knows who is behind it?’

‘He’s too small a fish to lead us straight to the big shark,’ Probus said, ‘but maybe we could net ourselves a few fish bigger than him. From there we work our way upwards. He’s your First Spear, tribune. Maybe you could loosen his tongue. Invite him into the mess, ply him with drink.’

Flaminius frowned thoughtfully. ‘We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Messalus and me,’ he mused. ‘He doesn’t like me, or I’m no judge. I could say that I was hoping to mend matters between us.’

Probus grinned. ‘It might work. You’re in a better position to do this than me. But please, tribune—don’t make a mess of this.’

Flaminius returned to his cohort barracks just in time to learn that the empress had sent a message; she was returning to the Villa for the night.

‘Good thing you returned when you did,’ Chief Centurion Messalus observed coldly. ‘You’d have been in trouble if you were absent when the empress wanted you.’

‘Get the men ready,’ Flaminius told him curtly.

‘Sir,’ said Chief Centurion Messalus, but he didn’t stir.

‘Well?’

‘Sir, I have already done that.’ He was staring directly forward, not making eye contact.

Flaminius sighed. ‘Very efficient, centurion.’

Then he laughed jovially. ‘Centurion, we got off on the wrong foot. We don’t have to be enemies. It’ll be bad for morale if things continue as they have done.’

‘Don’t know what you mean, sir.’

‘Centurion,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’d like you to join me in the mess when we get back to the Villa. Drinks on me.’

Messalus’ eyes swivelled his way. After a seeming eternity, his lips twitched. ‘Very good, sir.’

The journey back to the Villa began as soon as the empress was fully ready. As a result, it was the second watch of the night[3] before the Praetorians returned to barracks. Even Septicius Clarus seemed ready for bed. Flaminius, finally off duty, nodded to Chief Centurion Messalus.

‘Time for that drink, eh, centurion?’

Septicius Clarus overheard him. ‘I’ll join you,’ he said, ‘in a moment. I’ve got to speak with the empress first, but I think we all deserve a drink tonight.’

He marched off towards the palace. Flaminius cursed him silently. He didn’t want anyone else around when he was talking to Messalus. This would have to be done speedily.

‘Come along, centurion,’ he said. ‘Quick step!’

Shortly afterwards, they were both sitting in the officers’ mess, drinking wine. A statue of the emperor stood in one corner of the room, dominating the proceedings, and in its shadow Chief Centurion Messalus still seemed reserved. Flaminius despaired that he would be able to thaw him before the Prefect deigned to join them.

‘How did you wind up in this cohort?’ he asked curiously.

‘Don’t know what you mean, sir,’ Messalus said, emptying his beaker. He looked expectantly at Flaminius who signalled to the long suffering barman.

‘Nobody is accepted into the Praetorian Guard unless they’re exceptional in some way,’ Flaminius said as the barman poured another drink. ‘What did you do?’

Messalus shrugged. He accepted the second beaker and looked disapprovingly at Flaminius until he had made serious inroads into his own drink. When Flaminius was in the midst of draining it, Messalus looked at him levelly.

‘I kill people.’

Flaminius spluttered, almost choking on the rough wine. He shrugged. ‘We all do, don’t we? That’s our job.’

‘I’m very good at it,’ Messalus replied. ‘My best attribute. Killing people.’ He sighed. ‘I wish it wasn’t. I’d like to do something more useful. My father was a smith, but I was no good with my hands. Not for delicate work. So I joined the legions and put my hands to different use. I’ve killed more men—aye, and women and children—than I can count.’

He stared into his drink. Flaminius tried to conceal his rising excitement mingled with horror. Probus was right. Messalus was that same Praetorian centurion and assassin who had murdered Senator Nigrinus. And not only Nigrinus, by the sound of it!

Messalus nodded to the barman, who brought him another drink. The centurion drank it steadily. ‘I’ve served two emperors to the best of my ability,’ he went on. ‘I’ve killed without question, whenever it was needed. And what recognition have I received? Promotion to the Praetorians, yes. But no one calls me a hero. Of course, I’m not a pretty boy.’

‘Oh,’ said Flaminius. So that was it. Simple jealousy. Not that he’d ever have called himself a pretty boy… He shrugged. ‘I was in the right place at the right time, that was all.’

Chief Centurion Messalus scowled at him as if this was an admission of iniquity.

‘Your deeds can be shouted from the rooftops,’ he said, ‘but mine must be carried out by night, and they’re always hushed up afterwards. I killed that senator at the Prefect’s orders, and it just became an embarrassment to the emperor.’

‘Senator?’ Flaminius was surprised to find his voice a croak.

‘Nigrinus, he was called,’ Chief Centurion Messalus replied. ‘He conspired against the emperor. I surprised him in his garden at night and broke his neck. He wasn’t the first. I told you I’ve slaughtered more than I can count. But he was the only senator I’d killed. That is…’

‘Yes?’ Flaminius said.

‘Until I k…’

‘Chief Centurion Messalus!’

Flaminius jumped. He turned to see Septicius Clarus looming over them.

‘Centurion, you’re drunk!’ the Prefect barked. ‘Go to your quarters! And make a trip to the bathhouse. You’re filthy after the ride here.’ He wrinkled his nostrils.

Messalus lurched off the stool and stood to attention. He saluted. ‘Sir!’ he bellowed.

Was that gratitude in his eye? Flaminius watched closely as the centurion marched from the mess.

‘What d’you think you’re doing, tribune?’ Septicius Clarus said, sitting down awkwardly at the bar. ‘It’s all very well inviting centurions into the mess, good for morale as long as it doesn’t become a habit. But as for getting a good man disgustingly drunk!’ He rose. ‘Dismissed, tribune. Like the centurion, you are dismissed. I’ll deal with both of you later.’

He strode away.

—4—

Entering his office, Flaminius sat down and worried. If only the Prefect hadn’t chosen that moment to interrupt, this mystery might be approaching something like a solution. Messalus had obviously been about to confess. He’d already confessed to being the assassin of Senator Nigrinus, but that was ancient history. What mattered was Rufinus Crassus’ death, and its implications. If only Flaminius had been able to get the confession from the centurion’s lips…

Messalus had confessed to being a murderer. That was a fact. Probus had already pointed out that he had been first on the scene of Rufinus Crassus’ death. But the murder Messalus had confessed to had been strangling, not poisoning. Erichtho had not been able to confirm that the senator had been poisoned, but surely strangling would leave its mark. Had Flaminius’ trip to Erichtho’s pharmacy had been wasted? He looked round for the love philtre, and felt a little surprised when he couldn’t see it anywhere. His eyes fell on a small writing tablet in the middle of the table. It wasn’t his, and it hadn’t been there before.

Maybe it was a confidential report from one of his men, although why they hadn’t seen fit to hand it straight to him…

He picked it up, flipped it open, and read:

Meet me in the disused amphitheatre at the beginning of the third watch of the night. No one goes there. I must talk to you. Medea.

His pulse raced. Medea had learnt something! Something that she felt she had to confide in private. What was wrong with meeting at the laurel tree where they had had their previous assignations? Was someone onto them? It must be important, whatever she wanted to talk about. Surely it was connected with the murder.

At least it was a reason to get out of the barracks and go somewhere Septicius Clarus wouldn’t think to look. It couldn’t be far off the third watch of the night. Flaminius thought it would be a good idea if he took a late evening stroll in that general direction.

It looked like she had forgiven him after the way he had been forced to treat her in Britain[4]. As he crossed the gardens, the wind murmured among the bushes and the moon sailed high above the eastern hills.

Two Praetorians were on patrol. Recognising their tribune, they saluted him and gave the password, ‘Vigilance!’

‘Carry on, men,’ he told them with a gruff smile.

The small amphitheatre was built into the side of the hill, and a marble walkway led through pine trees to the top of the wall. He followed this.

The amphitheatre was like a smaller version of the Colosseum in Rome. It seemed that the empress had no interest in beast fights and gladiatorial games, and the place was currently out of use. Certainly it made an ideal location for a clandestine meeting—or a lover’s tryst. Flaminius’ pulse quickened. The moonlight glimmered on the marble as he approached. The Villa was a place of many secrets, he mused, remembering the underworld labyrinth of tunnels through which he had journeyed on his way to rescue the emperor from the assassin.

Looking down into the amphitheatre he saw that it also seemed to be deserted. The curving rows of stone benches sloped down towards the arena but there was no audience. The place was eerie and silent except for a distant susurrus of wind that stirred the cold sand into little dust devils.

Where was Medea?

Flaminius hurried down the steps between the seats, imagining what this place would be like when Hadrian had visitors to entertain; packed with senators and equestrians, intent on the duels to the death on the sand below. Now it lay bleak and empty, like Baiae[5] at Saturnalia.

‘Medea?’ he called out in a low voice. The place was deserted. What was she playing at?

He heard movement from below, somewhere in the gloom of the arena. Seizing the top of the wall that ran round the top of the arena, he leaned over, and hissed, ‘Medea? Is that you?’

An indistinct shape vanished into a dark, cave-like opening in the opposite wall.

Sweating despite the cool night air, Flaminius remained still, gripped by indecision. Who could it be other than Medea? But if it was here, why hadn’t she answered him? He might be drawing attention to himself. Perhaps that was what she wanted to avoid.

How could he get down into the arena? There was no obvious way from up here. But he couldn’t waste time looking. He climbed over the side, hung by his hands for a moment, then dropped.

Hitting the sand with a thud that jarred his spine, he turned quickly and scanned the arena. On the far side was the open gateway into which the pale figure had vanished.

As he crept across the sand, he heard a grinding and rumbling from up ahead, as of machinery. Poorly oiled machinery. A portcullis thundered open. Behind it yawned another gateway.

A massive tawny shape padded out into the moonlight. Two sparks of fire blazed in a maned face. Seeing Flaminius just as the moonlight fell upon it, the lion increased its pace, thudding softly across the sand of the arena.

Flaminius’ bowels turned to water. He was paralysed, unable to move, petrified as if he had looked upon the face of the Gorgon. He wanted to move, to run. The great cat loping towards him could kill him with one bite of its huge jaws. He had seen lions pursuing convicted criminals in the Colosseum often enough to know how it would go. He had to move, to run.

‘Gaius!’

A shrill voice screamed his name. Turning, he saw a female figure standing on the edge of the seating area, looking down at the arena. It was Medea. Then he caught a great waft of lion smell from behind him and heard the paws begin to pad faster. Without making any conscious decision he began to run.

The padding paws sped up. As he sprinted frantically towards the arena wall, he glanced back. The lion raced after him, sprinting almost playfully at his heels like a housecat in pursuit of a mouse. Medea screamed out again. Now a long rope dangled down from her position at the top of the arena wall. Reaching it, he leapt up to grab it. As he climbed, he realised that from its softness and its scent that it was not a rope but her own cloak.

The lion roared in frustration. Flaminius looked back to see the dark form gather itself up and leap at him.

Medea hauled on her cloak and Flaminius scrabbled at the dry stone sides of the arena. The lion’s claws passed his dangling legs by inches. Then the creature thudded to the sand again, and glared up in annoyance. Flaminius flung himself at the lip of the arena wall and began hauling himself up. He felt the air whistle past him as the lion leapt at him a second time.

At last he rolled over the little wall and lay panting and breathless at the bottom of the seating area, gazing up at Medea. She looked terrified in the moonlight, gripping her bundled up cloak in her hands. The lion could be heard growling and pacing back and forth out of sight.

She sank to her knees and reached out to him. ‘I couldn’t…I didn’t…’ she said incoherently, and began to weep.

Flaminius was shaking. He was numb with weariness, drained. But as she knelt beside him, sobbing, he hauled himself into a sitting position and put his arms around her. She was drenched in sweat. He took her cloak from her hands and put it round her shoulders

She looked up, her face glistening. ‘Are you alright?’ she said urgently. The lion could still be heard prowling below them, impotent, frustrated. ‘It didn’t get you?’

‘No,’ Flaminius said. He didn’t trust his legs to support him so he stayed sitting. ‘Thanks to you. You came in the nick of time. What kept you?’

‘W-what kept me?’

‘You left me that note. I thought you said the beginning of the third watch. Surely this is past the third watch.’

‘The note,’ she said. ‘The note?’

‘I thought I heard you moving about down there. You didn’t answer, so I followed you down into the arena, thinking you wanted us to keep quiet. But it couldn’t have been you. Next thing I knew, that thing was after me.’

She shuddered and held him close.

Even in his ecstasy of panic, it seemed that she was more terrified by the experience than he had been. He wanted to ask her what she had called him here to talk about, but he decided it could keep. That lion had not stopped pacing up and down. How it had got free was a question for a later date. He really ought to get Medea back to safety. Medea and himself.

Someone had just tried to kill him.

With an effort of will, he got to his feet, leaning on Medea, who was still shuddering. Together, they left the amphitheatre and made their way through the moonlit gardens and colonnades of the Villa in silence. Flaminius decided to take her back to the barracks where he was sure they would both be safe.

When he reached the doors to the barracks, the two scared looking guards on sentry duty stared at him and at the handmaiden at his side. Automatically, they saluted him and gave the password.

‘Sir,’ one guard added excitedly. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you. There’s been a murder. Someone’s poisoned Chief Centurion Messalus.’

—5—

‘What?’ Flaminius demanded, incredulous, clinging to the doorjamb for support. This was too much, just one thing after another, almost as bad as being back in Britain.

‘The Prefect,’ added the other guard, ‘said that if we saw you, we were to send you to him directly. He’s in the First Spear’s rooms.’

Moments later Flaminius and Medea entered the centurion’s quarters, which were was thronged with lantern bearing guards. Septicius Clarus stood beside a bed on which lay a twisted, motionless figure. Flaminius recognised it immediately as the burly Chief Centurion Messalus—his corpse, at least. His face was yellow tinged, his nose sharper than it had been in life, his mouth hung open. Crouched over, examining the body, was Erichtho of the Marsi.

Flaminius was surprised to see, also in the room, wearing night attire, the empress and her houseguest, Julius Ursus Servianus.

‘Tribune.’ Septicius Clarus greeted him angrily. ‘When the reports of Chief Centurion Messalus’ death reached me at the palace I wondered why the guards had not notified you, but they said you were not to be found.’ His gaze flickered from Flaminius to Medea. Medea looked at her feet. ‘I see you were celebrating the rites of spring with the imperial handmaiden!’

Erichtho glanced up and shook her head, disgusted.

‘What’s that?’ Flaminius said. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Listen to me, someone’s just tried to kill me…’ He trailed off, staring at Messalus’ motionless, lifeless form.

Septicius Clarus drew closer. He grimaced with disgust. ‘What nonsense. The pair of you stink of sweat,’ he said. ‘No guesses what kept you from your post. Last I saw of you, tribune, you were drinking—with the deceased centurion! Next, you decide to gallivant off into the bushes with this handmaiden! It’s not looking good, tribune. It’s not looking good.’

‘Come here, child,’ the empress told Medea, and she went over to her side. ‘Where have you been…?’

‘Ma’am …’ Medea began, but the empress drew her into the corner for a quiet scolding.

‘In my day,’ Ursus Servianus announced to no one in particular, ‘tribunes remained at their post. We had a sense of duty back then. What the empire is coming to! When I was posted to Britain as a young man…’

Flaminius felt that he was receiving a distinctly cold reception. ‘Can anyone tell me what has been going on in my absence?’ he asked.

He wanted to tell them what had happened in the amphitheatre but no one was willing to listen to any drama other than their own tonight. Something told him he was no longer the hero of the hour; possibly he had even been recast as villain of the piece.

Erichtho straightened up. Her hair hung in elf locks round her face and she looked as if she had been dragged from her bed. ‘Half an hour ago,’ she told him tiredly, ‘I was called here by Praetorian guards. They told me that they had been alerted by a terrible noise from the centurion’s quarters. When they had broken down the door they found him writhing in agony on the bed.’ She shrugged, and raked back her tangled locks. ‘He had died by the time I reached his side. The description of his condition and the state of his body now that I have examined it suggest to me that he was suffering from cantharadin poisoning.’

Flaminius twitched with recognition. ‘Cantharadin poisoning?’ A cold hand of dread squeezed round his heart.

Wordlessly, she indicated a goblet lying on its side by the bed. The floor was stained dark red with wine; it looked almost like a bloodstain. Flaminius noticed an open amphora in a stand on a nearby shelf. All his confusion about his own recent experiences vanished from his mind.

‘Why would someone want to poison the centurion?’ he demanded.

‘That’s what we would like you to tell us,’ said Septicius Clarus.

Flaminius looked uneasily from the Prefect to Ursus Servianus. The empress glanced up from her muted conversation with Medea. ‘Yes, why?’ she snapped, as if asking him why he had chosen to urinate in one of the fountains.

‘I-I haven’t the faintest idea!’ said Flaminius. ‘Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, but I never got the idea that he was much liked.’ A thought struck him. ‘He admitted to me that he was the murderer of Senator Nigrinus,’ he added. ‘You were there, Prefect, in the mess, when he told me. I don’t know if you overheard. The centurion had had a couple of drinks and was… unburdening himself, I suppose…’

Septicius Clarus and the others stared at him unspeaking. Flaminius faltered into silence.

‘I’ve been asking a few questions tonight,’ Septicius Clarus announced to the gathering. ‘The centurion was not well liked, no; most First Spears are not popular—it’s not their job to be popular but rather they are there to instil order and discipline into the men, which often requires a degree of brutality. But very few end up poisoned. And who was the poisoner? Men I’ve spoken to witnessed a developing friction between the centurion and his tribune…’

Flaminius felt his scalp crawl. He stared in horror at the Prefect. ‘What are you saying?’ This night already felt like a bad dream, but he didn’t think he was going to wake up yet.

Erichtho spoke up. ‘The centurion died from cantharadin poisoning,’ she said. ‘You, tribune, were in my pharmacy earlier in the day, asking questions about poison. I even gave you a phial of cantharadin which you requested…’

‘In fact, you seemed positively obsessed by the subject of poisoning when I first spoke to you!’ the empress commented, glaring at him as if the very fact condemned him. Medea looked at her mistress. There was an expression on her face that Flaminius couldn’t interpret.

‘From the time of death,’ Erichtho added, ‘I would say Chief Centurion Messalus was poisoned at a little before the third watch of the night.’

‘Not long after I dismissed you and the centurion from the mess,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘And the physician says that you begged from her some cantharadin. Why was that?’

Flaminius put a hand to his face. He looked at Medea again. This was going to be difficult to explain. ‘It’s… it’s used as a love philtre,’ he said feebly. ‘I left it on my desk.’ He frowned. ‘I couldn’t find it before.’

‘Why did you want a love philtre?’ The empress was incandescent. ‘So you could debauch my handmaiden?’

‘Not sure you could manage it unaided?’ Ursus Servianus taunted him.

‘And yet you did, didn’t you?’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘You return here with the handmaiden, both of you stinking with sweat… But you didn’t use the cantharadin as a love philtre! That was a lie, a virile buck like you would have no need for it. You used it for another purpose, didn’t you?’ He gestured at the centurion’s slowly stiffening body. ‘A more sinister purpose.’

Flaminius’ world was closing in. All of a sudden he saw a chance to exonerate himself.

‘When exactly did you say the centurion was poisoned?’ he inquired. Erichtho repeated her previous estimate. Flaminius shrugged. ‘Well, I couldn’t have administered it. I wasn’t here. I had gone to meet Medea. Isn’t that right?’ he asked her.

She looked at her feet. ‘I saw the tribune,’ she admitted, drawing a venomous look from the empress. ‘But it was later than that. The beginning of the third watch.’

Flaminius stared at her, puzzled. Was she trying to preserve her own reputation? Some chance, the dirty minds they had round here. And at his own expense!

‘Besides,’ said Ursus Servianus airily, ‘the centurion clearly had the poison slipped into his drink. You could have done that earlier and gone off to debauch the handmaiden while your enemy died slowly.’

Septicius Clarus signalled to two guards. ‘Take the tribune and confine him to barracks.’

—6—

Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 9th April, 122 AD

Flaminius sat in the cell-cum-storeroom that he had examined the previous day, this time a prisoner. He stared into the darkness, idly tracing the mysterious graffiti with its meaningless message. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone—someone else?—had blamed him for the murder of his chief centurion. Who had tried to kill him? Someone had known or guessed about his clandestine meeting with Medea in the amphitheatre, who had used it as an opportunity to kill him, setting free one of the lions from its pen beneath the arena. Whoever it was, they didn’t like him, that was for sure.

As for the murder of Chief Centurion Messalus, it had been carried out in a way that immediately threw suspicion on Flaminius. The murderer had used cantharadin—the cantharadin he had weaselled out of Erichtho and which had later gone mysteriously missing? Everyone seemed to think so—it had laid the guilt at his door, and right now he couldn’t see a way to clear his name.

He felt a chill. Was this the work of the same person? Had they tried to have him killed and at the same time framed him for the murder of Chief Centurion Messalus? That seemed overcomplicated. Perhaps two forces were at work here, one that had tried to have Flaminius killed, another that had killed Messalus and set Flaminius up.

So why kill Messalus? Well, because he was the real killer of Rufinus Crassus, a catspaw employed by higher forces, who had to be poisoned to stop him revealing what he knew. That seemed feasible; the man had murdered senators in the past. He had been little more than a hired killer. If someone had wanted Rufinus Crassus out of the way, the centurion would have been the ideal choice, and besides, Messalus had been in the right place at the right time, on guard over the prisoner. The first on the scene.

Flaminius looked dismally round the dim room. This was where Rufinus Crassus had met his end. He had died because he had known too much. Flaminius had come poking his nose into the man’s death, and now he too was locked in this room, awaiting trial for alleged murder. Or perhaps he was just awaiting his own death.

He traced the graffiti yet again. TFSBQJT DTQRF ZPV DMBSVT. He had it memorised now. Perhaps Rufinus Crassus had scratched it in his last hours. Probus had suggested it was a cipher. In which case, Flaminius wondered how it could be deciphered. His mentor had him about ciphers and codes during his training in Eboracum.

As a boy, he’d read about the old Spartan skytale, a strip of goatskin with letters on it that spelt out a message if the skin was wrapped around a stick the same thickness as the one it had been wrapped round when it was written. Cipher technology had moved on since then, Probus had explained, becoming increasingly more sophisticated. Julius Caesar had developed a series of complex ciphers for his private communications, and even some comparatively simple ones. The one Flaminius remembered was the one known as the Caesar cipher. In this code each letter was replaced by the one that was three letters along from it in the alphabet, so A became D, B became E, and so on. In which case the graffiti would read W… I… V… E… U… M… W…

Flaminius scratched his head. At first he’d thought he had been going somewhere with it, but no. No. It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t Greek. It wasn’t any of the British dialects Flaminius had picked up when he had been serving with the Ninth Legion. And it remained as meaningless as it had been before he’d tried to decipher it.

His shoulders slumped. For a moment, the intellectual exercise had kept his mind off his fate. But he had failed, his chariot had crashed at the first turn of the track, and now the hopelessness of his situation returned.

But maybe it was another kind of cipher. Maybe if he tried changing the letters to their equivalents four letters along the alphabet… In which case the graffiti would start with an X. Good. Maybe it was Greek. Lots of Greek words began with an X. But… in that case the next letter would be a J, and the Greek alphabet didn’t have a J. He frowned. Surely the second letter would have to be a vowel… unless the first one was.

He sat back against the wall, sighing. It was hopeless.

Why didn’t they hurry up and put him on trial? At least then he would have a chance of proving himself innocent. Ha! Some chance. He might well end up being be tried by the man who’d attempted to kill him.

Moonlight fell through the little window. It wouldn’t help him defend himself if he got no sleep. He lay down on the uncomfortable cold bench and pillowed his face in his hands. He tried to get to sleep but with the cold and the hardness of the bench, not to mention his fears, he found it almost impossible.

That night seemed to last forever.

He was woken at last by a banging on the door. Eyes red rimmed and heavy, he blinked in the shaft of morning sunlight as a panel in the door slid open. The brutal face of Centurion Junius Italicus appeared.

‘You are summoned,’ the centurion said, ‘sir.’ Junius Italicus had been the centurion second in rank to Messalus.

‘Summoned?’ Flaminius said, confused. ‘When does the trial begin?’

‘The trial’s already begun,’ the centurion said, unlocking and opening the door. ‘That’s why you’re summoned to the empress’ presence.’

As he allowed himself to be led into the palace, where he had previously been hailed as a hero, Flaminius told himself that the empress was taking a very keen interest in what was a purely military matter.

The Dining Room of the Centaurs had been decked out as a military court room. The empress and some of her guests sat on one side, observing. Septicius Clarus sat on one side, as prosecuting advocate, while Ursus Servianus had been appointed judge. Praetorian guards lined the walls. Flaminius was shown to a seat in the middle of all. He was offered an advocate from the empress’ staff but told the court that he would testify in his own defence.

Septicius Clarus began the proceedings with an account of the events of the previous night. To clarify matters, he called several Praetorians who explained he they had realised that something was wrong with their chief centurion.

‘I heard him, sir,’ said Albus, a tall, gangly fellow with curly dark hair. ‘I was on patrol nearby so I heard the noise.’

‘What noise was that?’ asked Septicius Clarus.

‘It was a crash, and a gargling noise,’ Albus said. ‘It was coming from the First Spear’s chamber, so me and my mate ran in. We found Chief Centurion Messalus lying on the floor, choking. I went to get the tribune, but he wasn’t in his room, so then I went to find the prefect.’

‘For the court,’ Ursus Servianus said, ‘where did you find him?’

‘Sir,’ said Albus, ‘I found him in the palace. He came out of the emp…’

‘Thank you, soldier,’ Septicius Clarus interrupted. ‘Sir, by the time we returned to the chief centurion’s quarters, he was already dead. I shall now describe what I saw.’

‘Prefect, I am perfectly capable of presiding over this trial,’ Ursus Servianus said, showing disapproval at Septicius Clarus’ interruption. ‘Tell the court. What happened?’

Septicius Clarus gave Ursus Servianus a dark look, then he turned and faced the gathered people.

‘I was called from my office in the palace,’ he said, ‘by Albus. We hurried to the barracks and entered the chief centurion’s quarters. I…’

‘Describe the quarters when you entered it,’ said Ursus Servianus.

‘I...’ Septicius Clarus paused and stared at Ursus Servianus. He cleared his throat and glanced at the empress, who nodded encouragingly. ‘I entered to find the chief centurion sprawled on his bed. Two Praetorians were already there, the guard on duty and the chief centurion’s clerk. They said he had died a quarter of an hour ago, just after Albus was sent to get me.’

‘Was there any sign of anyone else having been in the room?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

Septicius Clarus shook his head. ‘I saw footprints. But they were those of the Praetorians, who had stepped in the spilt wine on the floor. Also on the floor was the chief centurion’s wine cup.’

‘Where was the wine?’

‘I told you, on the floor.’

‘No, where was the amphora it came from, I mean,’ Ursus Servianus said.

‘I didn’t notice,’ said Septicius Clarus. ‘I think it was on the shelf nearby. I checked Messalus for a pulse, but he was dead, as the men had said. I looked at the body. From its expression I guessed it had been poisoned, so I sent the guards to get Erichtho. She confirmed that Messalus had suffered cantharadin poisoning. Then I remembered seeing a phial of cantharadin in the tribune’s office, so I sent guards to find him. He was discovered shortly afterwards, outside, accompanied by the empress’ handmaiden. Both were covered in sweat. By this time, I had also sent other guards—the barracks was awake and in uproar by then—to the palace, and several members of the imperial household had joined us.’

‘And your contention is that Tribune Flaminius murdered Chief Centurion Messalus with cantharadin?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

Septicius Clarus stared at him again. ‘Of course. It’s obvious! He had the cantharadin, which he got from Erichtho. He had been arguing with Messalus. They were at odds…’ He trailed off.

‘And so, you contend, he poisoned him?’ said Ursus Servianus. ‘Thank you, Prefect. I will speak with Erichtho now.’

Septicius Clarus paused. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.

Erichtho swished up to the front in a whirl of flowing garments. ‘I was called from my bed,’ she said. ‘Inside the room it was much as the prefect has said. The centurion showed all the classic signs of cantharadin poisoning. Of course, I thought at once of the phial I had given to the tribune…’

‘What precisely are the classic signs of cantharadin poisoning?’ Ursus Servianus cut in.

‘Blisters, mainly,’ Erichtho replied. ‘There were blisters all over his chest, caused by the cantharadin.’ She cast her eyes downwards and added, ‘I also noticed that he was substantially priapic, which is of course another effect of cantharidin. This is why the drug is used as an aphrodisiac—in smaller, non-fatal doses, of course. Furthermore, he had urinated involuntarily during his struggles, and the urine that stained his breeches was flecked with blood, another classic symptom. The description of his dying was also consistent with that of someone poisoned with cantharadin. Furthermore, when I sniffed at the fallen beaker, it had something of the foetid smell associated with the drug.’

‘Enough for the murdered centurion to have noticed?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

Erichtho shrugged. ‘He could have smelled it. What’s more, if there was enough in there to kill him, as there clearly was, it would have tasted bitter. But from what Septicius Clarus has told me, the chief centurion had already been drinking, so perhaps he did not notice. I think he took a long draught of it, and it took effect immediately.’

‘Where do you suppose the cantharadin was obtained?’

‘As the prefect said,’ Erichtho replied testily, ‘I gave some to Tribune Flaminius since he intimated that he was suffering from impotence.’

Flaminius surprised himself by blushing crimson.

‘When would you say the fatal dose was ingested?’ Ursus Servianus asked.

‘Just before the beginning of the third watch of the night,’ Erichtho replied.

‘Thank you, that’s all,’ said Ursus Servianus, and Erichtho went to sit down. ‘I think it’s about time we heard from the accused,’ Ursus Servianus added, and beckoned to Flaminius to rise.

‘Very well,’ said Septicius Clarus, ‘Tell us your own story, tribune.’ That earned him a glower from Ursus Servianus.

‘I wasn’t there at the beginning of the third watch,’ Flaminius began. ‘I received a note from the imperial handmaiden Medea, who…’ He paused. ‘She wished to speak with me in confidence. At the disused amphitheatre.’

‘Why exactly did she want to speak to you in confidence?’ Septicius Clarus demanded.

‘You’ll have to ask the handmaiden that yourself,’ Flaminius told him. ‘We didn’t get much of an opportunity to talk. When I first got there, there was no sign of her, but then someone tried to murder me.’

‘Tried to murder you?’ Septicius Clarus looked genuinely amazed. ‘Why would anyone… how… who?’

‘I don’t know who,’ Flaminius said, ‘but… I thought I saw someone down in the arena. It was dark and I couldn’t see them properly. I assumed it was Medea. I went down there to speak to her and a lion attacked me.’

‘A lion?’ Septicius Clarus looked to the empress in bewilderment. She returned his expression stony faced. ‘What is this story? How could you escape a lion?’

‘I ran as fast as I could back to the side of the arena,’ Flaminius said. ‘The lion was almost upon me when Medea appeared and I used her cloak to climb out again. Otherwise I would have been dead.’ He said the last with some emotion.

‘And this is your alibi?’ said Ursus Servianus, as if he thought it a farrago of nonsense. ‘But the handmaiden Medea said your meeting happened later than Messalus’ murder.’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘Medea could not provide me with an alibi. But just before the third watch, on my way to the assignation, I encountered a Praetorian patrol.’ He looked round at the gathered guards. ‘They may well be in here at the moment. Fabius Pollio and Appius Vibius.’

One of the guards stepped forward. He looked apprehensively at Septicius Clarus, then at Flaminius.

‘Appius Vibius is back at the barracks,’ he said, ‘but I can confirm that I encountered you in the gardens just before the third watch.’

A hubbub of conversation broke out. Ursus Servianus called for silence.

‘Now we have established an alibi for Tribune Flaminius,’ said the senator, ‘all we have to do is identify the real murderer…’

‘Thank you, brother in law,’ said the empress, speaking for the first time. ‘Since the tribune has established his innocence but we have yet to identify the murderer, I suggest that he himself investigates the murder.

Flaminius was taken aback.

‘Thank you for your confidence in me,’ he said.

The empress smiled sweetly. ‘We will give him six days,’ she told the court, ‘and if he has not found any evidence that points to another suspect, he will be put on trial again.’

‘Of course,’ said Septicius Clarus, ‘without any other suspects, the chances are that despite his convenient alibi he will be found guilty.’

Flaminius frowned. This was serious. The prefect seemed determined to pin the blame on him. He needed help. ‘I have no experience of murder investigation,’ he told the empress, ‘but there is a man in Rome who I believe could help me. May I send to Rome for assistance?’

The empress frowned. She looked at Ursus Servianus.

‘I don’t see there’s any harm in that,’ said the senator.

The empress looked meaningfully at Septicius Clarus, who rose, and barked out:

‘Court adjourned!’

—7—

‘You have a visitor,’ said Junius Italicus, ‘sir.’

After proving his alibi, Flaminius had returned to barracks where he had sent messengers to Rome to request Probus’ presence.

‘Send him in, centurion,’ he said, looking up from his desk at Junius Italicus, who stood in the doorway.

‘Sir!’ said the centurion smartly, and stepped aside. Flaminius brightened as a familiar short, solid figure bustled past Centurion Junius Italicus and entered the office. It was Probus, clad in ceremonial breastplate and with a crested helmet under his arm. He must have come as soon as he was called for.

‘Thank you, centurion,’ Flaminius said to Junius Italicus. ‘I’ll send for you if I need you.’ Junius Italicus snapped a sharp salute and marched from the room.

‘Tell me everything that has happened,’ Probus said, without wasting time with greetings. ‘Where were you at the time of your Chief Centurion’s death?’

Over the next few minutes Flaminius explained what had happened. Probus listened as if his life depended on it. Certainly Flaminius’ did. Together they went into the cell and Probus examined the room while Flaminius continued his story.

‘So,’ Probus said thoughtfully, ‘You were nowhere near when the centurion died.’ He had been studying the ciphered message while Flaminius spoke. Now he rose to his feet. ‘The walls have ears,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

He led Flaminius outside.

‘But it was my… er… love philtre that was used to poison him,’ Flaminius pointed out as they came out into the park. The noontime sun beamed down on them, as if all was joyful.

‘Presumably it was slipped into his drink,’ Probus said as they strolled towards the palace. ‘And you’d been seen drinking with him earlier. But from what the witch Erichtho says, the poison couldn’t have been administered as early as that, so it must have been in a drink that the centurion poured himself when he had returned to his own quarters.

‘Since it was lying on its side beside him,’ the centurion added, ‘that means it had only been drunk shortly before it affected him. Someone must have slipped the poison into the beaker of wine. That surely means someone was with him when or shortly before he was killed; he wouldn’t have kept a beaker of wine hanging round until it turned to vinegar.’

Even as he spoke, Septicius Clarus strode from within the palace, white plumed helmet under one arm, burnished breastplate gleaming. He was flanked by several armoured Praetorians.

‘Centurion Probus!’ Septicius Clarus said with a nervous laugh. ‘Surely you’re not alone with the suspect. He’s killed once recently. He could kill again.’

‘Nonsense, Prefect,’ Probus replied equably. ‘The lad’s established his innocence, and now we will find out who really murdered the centurion.’

Septicius Clarus studied him for a moment. ‘Bring the tribune with you,’ he said at last. ‘The empress herself wishes to speak to you both.’

Probus stood before the empress.

‘And why exactly have you agreed to help the tribune investigate the murderer?’ she murmured.

Probus grinned without humour. ‘Because he is the only person in this place I’m sure didn’t murder Chief Centurion Messalus, your imperial majesty.’

Sabina looked down her nose at the commissary centurion. ‘Are you suggesting that I might have poisoned the First Spear?’

‘I can assure you,’ Septicius Clarus said, outraged, ‘that the empress was in her bedchamber during the second watch of the night.’

‘Can you now?’ said Probus. He raised his hands. ‘I am not pointing the finger of blame at anyone. Unlike some people, I am not willing to throw around accusations without establishing full proof.

‘With the current vogue for all things Greek, many people profess themselves to be stoics, perhaps, or epicureans. I, however, consider myself a sceptic. I do not believe in anything without undisputable evidence. Tribune Flaminius has been proposed as the murderer, but an alibi has been established. Therefore, he, of everyone present here last night, is innocent. Someone else present at the time put the poison into Messalus’ wine. I must ask you all to remain here while I and the tribune investigate the chief centurion’s quarters.’

‘Very well!’ said the empress. ‘Investigate.’

‘And so I shall,’ said Probus. ‘I must request that you all remain in the Villa during the investigation.’ Ignoring the expression on the empress’ face, Probus turned and beckoned to Flaminius, who followed him from the room

‘You’ve been doing some reading recently,’ the tribune commented as they departed the palace. ‘You’ve never mentioned being a sceptic before. Weren’t they the ones who lived in barrels?’

‘I was a sceptic before ever I read the works of Pyrrho or spoke to Sextius Empiricus,’ Probus replied. ‘And no, Pyrrho didn’t live in a barrel. That was Diogenes, who was a cynic. I’m not ready to drop out like Diogenes did, but a little bit of empiricism will go a long way in this investigation.’

‘We’ve got so little to go on, though,’ Flaminius objected. Probus was about to reply when it all came out in a rush, everything that had been going through his mind as he tried to sleep. ‘Some maniac set a lion on me last night. Who? And what did Medea want to talk to me about?’

They approached the barracks.

‘In time,’ said Probus, ‘we will question everyone who was present.’

‘What if they run away?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Can you keep them confined to the Villa?’

‘If they run away it will be a confession of their guilt,’ the centurion replied, ‘but I don’t think they will. I think the people responsible for Messalus’ death are also behind Rufinus Crassus’ murder. Find one and you’ll find the other. But we’ve only just scratched the surface. There is more to this than a simple poisoning.’

Two Praetorians were on guard at the door to the late chief centurion’s quarters. They came to attention as Flaminius and Probus approached but looked at the former uncertainly.

‘Jupiter’s balls! Who put you on guard here?’ asked Probus, halting in front of them.

‘Sir, it was the Prefect, sir,’ said one guard. ‘No one is to go in or out.’ They crossed their spears over the entrance with a clash of steel.

‘You can let us in, soldier,’ said Flaminius wearily.

‘Sorry, sir, orders are orders,’ said the other.

Probus grunted. ‘Septicius Clarus was right to put guards on the centurion’s quarters,’ he said, ‘but he could have told us. You!’ He pointed at the first guard. ‘Run to the palace and obtain the prefect’s permission to let us in.’

The guard returned after about ten minutes.

‘The Prefect gives you leave to enter,’ he said. His comrade stepped back smartly from the door and allowed Probus to open it.

Flaminius reached over to brush a speck of dirt from the second Praetorian’s breastplate. ‘Good work, men,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

He followed Probus into the room, gagging as his nostrils were met by a rank smell of spilt wine mingled with odours of urine and vomit. No one had opened a window since he had last been in here.

Probus stood in the centre of the room, looking around him. Flaminius followed his gaze.

Everything was as it had been last night, except that Messalus’ body had been removed from the bed. He wondered where it had been taken. Had it been sent to the Praetorian camp for cremation? Bodies didn’t last long in Italy, even in winter, let alone spring.

Near the bed was a wall shelf on which stood an amphora in a stand. Beside the bed lay the beaker, and wine stained the floor. On the far side from the door was a single window, whose thick glass allowed light in but permitted no very clear view of the park beyond. On the opposite side from the bed was a desk and a chair. The desk was piled with wax tablets, reports presumably. Probus crossed to the desk and went through them. Producing one, he opened it. His eyes scanned it, then he beckoned Flaminius over.

Probus handed him the wax tablet. Flaminius tried to read it. He frowned.

“Uif xbhft usbjo mfbwft qpsuvt jeft pg bqsjm bu oppo. Xf buubdl ju bu njeojhiu po uif qpsuvt spbe…”

Flaminius gave up after a couple of lines. He had a headache coming on. ‘This is just like that graffiti,’ he breathed.

‘Exactly,’ said Probus. ‘Perhaps they all used the same cipher. It shouldn’t take me long to work it out, when I get the opportunity.’ He slipped the tablet into a belt pouch.

Next he went across to the bed and examined the footprints in the spilt wine. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘All standard military boots. No distinguishing features. Besides, they would have been made after the wine was spilt, by which time I’m sure our poisoner was long gone.’

He sighed and crossed over to the amphora, uncorked it and sniffed at it. His face brightened and he held it over to Flaminius. The tribune caught a whiff of something bitter beneath the oaky smell of the wine.

‘Cantharadin?’ he asked, looking up at Probus.

Probus shrugged. ‘From Erichtho’s description, yes,’ he said.

‘I don’t see that that tells us much,’ said Flaminius. ‘We already knew that he was poisoned. With cantharadin, too.’

‘But we didn’t know if the poison was slipped into his drink after he had poured it,’ Probus said, ‘or into his amphora beforehand. Now we know it was already in the amphora, so the poisoner wasn’t necessarily present at the time of the murder.’ A thought struck him. ‘I think we’d better keep quiet about this.’

‘Why?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Because you are no longer clear of suspicion,’ said Probus. ‘You could have slipped the poison into the wine at any point.’ He dipped a finger into the amphora. ‘Almost full,’ he added. He lifted it to his lips.

‘Probus!’ Flaminius cried out. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ He knew the centurion liked a drink but this was going too far. The man was a raving dipsomaniac!

‘Only a little sip,’ Probus said. ‘Not enough to kill.’ He sipped, then pulled it away with a disgusted expression. ‘Vinegar,’ he said. ‘It looks like it was opened before Messalus poured a beakerful. Someone must have slipped into his quarters before he got here.’

‘But who?’ Flaminius asked.

‘If I knew that…!’ Probus began angrily. He halted. ‘What do we think so far? The evidence indicates that Chief Centurion Messalus was the murderer of Rufinus Crassus. Why did he kill him?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘To keep him quiet. Rufinus Crassus tried to assassinate the emperor, until I stopped him.’ Fondly he remembered a time not so long ago when he had been hero of the empire, not a murder suspect.

‘So Messalus murdered him, presumably with poison, since Erichtho noticed some cantharadin had gone missing at the same time, although we don’t have enough information to be certain. Possibly he strangled him, since that was his favourite means of execution. Some months later, you were promoted to the post of tribune of a Praetorian cohort and began your investigation. Just when you had found a clue, the man most likely to have murdered the senator was himself killed. To top that, you were accused of the murder, and were only cleared due to your having been seen at the right time to give you an alibi. Of course, we know that really you’re still not in the clear…’

Hurt, Flaminius said, ‘But I didn’t do it!’

Probus nodded. ‘I know that. But other people don’t know you as well as I do, and remember that if we don’t solve this little mystery soon, you’ll be put on trial again. And if they find evidence that annuls your alibi...’

‘There’s also the fact that when I went to meet Medea,’ Flaminius said, ‘someone set a lion on me! It doesn’t make sense. If it hadn’t been for Medea, I would have been torn to pieces. I escaped by the skin of my teeth as it is. Why try to kill me that way and frame me for Messalus’ murder as well?’

Probus rubbed his chin. ‘It suggests that the people at the back of all this aren’t working in concert,’ he admitted. ‘Things will all become clearer when we find out who is responsible.

‘It must be someone present at the Villa now, and also present when Rufinus Crassus made his assassination attempt and was murdered for his failure. So who was present on both occasions? Anyone who was, would be the main suspect.’

Flaminius laughed hollowly. ‘The first person who I can think of who was there on both occasions,’ he said sardonically, ‘was me.’

‘Very well,’ said Probus. ‘Who’s present now who also has a reason to kill Messalus?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘Who knew that Messalus was likely to confess to murdering Rufinus Crassus? Only Septicius Clarus. He heard the centurion about to tell me about it.’

Probus nodded. ‘And surely Septicius Clarus was present on the empress’ birthday, when Rufinus Crassus made his assassination attempt. So is he the murderer? Did he put poison in Messalus’ wine? You say he took an interest in your phial of cantharadin.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘He went to the palace after that,’ he said, ‘and he was there when the guards went to get him. In his office. Or…’

‘Or what?’

‘He interrupted the guard. The guard was saying he was “in the emp…” Then he stopped.’

‘“The emp…”?’ Probus scowled. ‘The emperor’s study? The empress’ dining chamber? Any number of places in the palace could have a name beginning with emp...’

‘But why did Septicius Clarus deny it? Why did he correct it so clumsily to his own office?’

‘Suggests he has something to hide, certainly…’ Probus began. Flaminius interrupted him excitedly. ‘Remember I told you that I saw him with the empress.’

‘Naturally,’ said Probus, who didn’t care for being interrupted. ‘He’s the Praetorian Prefect. Since the emperor has seen fit to leave him behind, his first place is at his empress’ side.’

‘Yes…’ said Flaminius. ‘But it looked like their working relationship was getting a little unprofessional. The late First Spear suggested, rather impertinently, that his imperial majesty neglected his wife for the beds of young boys…’

‘Everyone knows what direction Hadrian’s lusts lie,’ Probus said dismissively, to Flaminius’s surprise; the tribune hadn’t realised it was common knowledge. ‘She wouldn’t be the first neglected empress to find lovers elsewhere. But yes, you did mention it, and you also told me about the imperial secretary’s apparent jealousy. I was intending to drop in on Suetonius Tranquillus today, until I was called away to wet nurse you. It could be that Septicius Clarus is trying to cover up for being in bed with the empress when the murder occurred. It would certainly give him an alibi, although I’d be intrigued to see how willing he would be to admit it.’

‘So in that case, who else was in a position to murder Messalus, and had a good reason to?’ Flaminius said. ‘It’s someone connected with the plot against the emperor that we discovered. I thought we had seen the end of that particular conspiracy, but of course, we didn’t find out who was the mastermind.’ He frowned. ‘You said you thought you knew who was at the back of it…’

‘No one I would be willing to accuse without enough evidence,’ Probus said. ‘It’s possible that if we identify the murderer it will lead us back to the mastermind, but for the moment the less said the better. Who else is present?’

‘My cohort of Praetorians, the empress. The Praetorian Prefect. The emperor’s brother in law, Ursus Servianus. Imperial slaves...’

‘You know,’ Probus said thoughtfully, ‘we might be better able to find out more about the murder of Messalus if we learnt more about the man he murdered. Rufinus Crassus’ family spirited his body away very quickly—so much so that Erichtho had no real chance to examine it.’

‘Assuming she wasn’t already acquainted with it.’

‘That’s a point,’ Probus said. ‘The person best able to poison Messalus would be the Marsi woman. She said she was dragged from her bed after the murder was discovered, but what proof do we have that she really had been to bed? Perhaps she’d been sneaking about the barracks slipping poison into… What are you staring at?’

Flaminius had seen something under the bed. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of spilt wine and vomit, he crouched down, reached in and brought out a green phial. He recognised it at once although it was empty.

‘My love philtre,’ he said wryly.

‘So, no reason to suspect Erichtho,’ Probus concluded, ‘if the killer used poison stolen from your office. But who would have been able to steal it, and when?’

Flaminius rubbed his chin. ‘I noticed it was missing when I got back from drinking with Messalus,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find it. But I did find Medea’s note.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Probus. ‘I think the first person we should talk to is that young lady.’

Flaminius sent one of the guards to the palace and he soon returned accompanied by the imperial handmaiden. Medea entered the place with a look of revulsion on her face.

‘You wanted to speak to me?’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ said Probus. ‘I…’

‘Could we talk somewhere else?’ She looked green.

‘Of course,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’ll go to my office.’ He caught a look from Probus. ‘After all, that location is significant to our inquiry,’ he added.

In his own office he offered his chair to Medea and sat down on a stool, pushing another one over to Probus. Probus sat on it gingerly. Medea looked from one to another.

‘Are you worried that I’ve betrayed your secret?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No!’ said Flaminius. ‘I wouldn’t suspect that of you. What secret, anyway? That Probus and I are working together? That I’m here undercover?’

‘Have you betrayed our secret?’ Probus asked in a forbidding tone.

Medea looked at him. She shook her head. ‘No, of course not. But why do you want to talk to me? Oh, you’ve infuriated the empress, by the way. She’s talking of leaving the Villa and returning to the Imperial Palace in Rome.’

‘Not until my investigation is over,’ Probus said firmly.

‘Your investigation?’ Medea asked. ‘Into Messalus’ death? Or into that senator’s?’

‘Both murders are connected,’ Probus told her.

‘Look, Medea, how about you let Centurion Probus ask the questions?’ Flaminius said. She gave him a look, then turned back to Probus.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘This assignation,’ Probus began. ‘This romantic little tryst with the tribune here, in the amphitheatre. What brought that into your mind?’

‘Oh, you’ll be interested to know that the lion has been captured and returned to its pen,’ she said in an aside to Flaminius.

‘Why did I choose the amphitheatre, centurion? Because I thought we could be alone there. It was so long since I had last seen Flaminius. I couldn’t show my affection for him with the empress and her handmaidens looking on, now could I?’

‘You’re saying it was indeed a love tryst?’

Medea shrugged. ‘Of course. We became lovers in Caledonia without my master learning about it. That is, until…’

Flaminius remembered. Probus had persuaded him to bring it about that he was discovered in Medea’s bed when her master, the governor of Britain, returned to camp. It gave Flaminius a reason to flee with information about the conspiracy against the emperor without the plotters becoming suspicious. It had been a little hard on Medea, however; she had been soundly whipped and later dismissed from Falco’s service.

‘…but that’s all in the past,’ she went on. ‘I landed on my feet like a cat. The empress is a kinder mistress than Falco was a master.’

Flaminius looked about the desk but he could see no sign of Medea’s message to him. He couldn’t quite remember the wording, but he was sure it had mentioned her having urgent information.

‘I thought you had something that could help with the investigation,’ he told her.

She looked at him. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That is, I can’t think of anything. A lot’s happened since then. My mind’s awhirl. No, I think I just wanted to see you.’

‘How touching,’ said Probus sardonically. ‘The two lovers reunited. Shame about some fool releasing a lion. And then the nasty business with the chief centurion being poisoned. Speaking of which, when you put your note on the table here, did you happen to see a green phial?’

‘A green phial?’ Medea asked. She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Flaminius,’ Probus said. ‘Jog this young lady’s memory.’

Flaminius produced the green phial. Medea gazed at it, her face blank.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Perfume? A present for me?’ She took it. ‘It’s empty,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes,’ said Probus. ‘Its contents were put to an unorthodox use. Ah, but it wasn’t perfume that it contained, rather a love philtre. But like all love it turned poisonous in the end.’

Medea made a face. Flaminius glared at Probus. There was nothing to be gained by frightening the girl.

‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ she asked. ‘The empress wanted to know how long you were proposing to take investigating the murder.’

‘Tell her imperial majesty that my investigation will take exactly as long as it takes. As long as she doesn’t leave the Villa there will be no problems.’

‘You can’t give orders to the empress.’ Flaminius beat Medea to it by a second.

‘No orders,’ Probus said. ‘Simply a request.’ He looked at Medea again. ‘You’ve been very helpful to the tribune. Tell me what you know about the imperial secretary.’

Medea shivered. ‘Suetonius Tranquillus? He’s a horror. Always pawing at the handmaidens whenever the empress isn’t looking. Lecherous old goat. And he says such nasty things about women. Do you think he murdered the chief centurion…? But he’s gone away. I think he’s at the Imperial Palace in Rome.’

‘I don’t think he murdered anyone,’ Probus said. ‘But it’s possible that he knows something that could be of use to the investigation. Why did he depart so suddenly?’

Medea shrugged. ‘He had an argument with the Praetorian Prefect,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what about, I only overheard part of it. Strange, those two are usually the firmest of friends. But I think it was over a woman. Don’t know who. I feel sorry for her, whoever she was, to have those two fighting over her.’ She added, ‘Septicius Clarus is quite nice, for an old boy, but Suetonius Tranquillus, yuck.’

‘Why didn’t you provide Flaminius with an alibi?’ Probus asked.

She looked surprised and a little ashamed. ‘I didn’t see him until after the third watch,’ she said, ‘so I couldn’t in all honesty provide him with an alibi. Messalus had been poisoned by the time I found Gaius running from that lion.’

‘Who else knew that you were meeting…Gaius?’ Probus asked.

Again she looked surprised. ‘No one, of course. It was a secret meeting. I slipped into his office after we got back from Rome to find no sign of him—I suppose he was drinking with, with the chief centurion. So I left a note.’ She frowned. ‘I suppose someone else might have come into the office and seen it!’ She darted a look at Flaminius. ‘You really should lock your door, Gaius. Anyone can get in.’

Flaminius nodded thoughtfully. ‘That could be it. I don’t know what I did with the note after I got it. I just hurried to the amphitheatre to meet you. Got there a bit early. Maybe someone read the note and then went to release the lion. Who, and why, I couldn’t say.’

‘You say you hurried to this lover’s tryst,’ said Probus.

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius, nodding. ‘They must have been quicker than I was. There was someone there, I know that much. I saw them.’

‘What did they look like?’ Probus asked.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I couldn’t make them out. They were wearing white, I think. I thought it was Medea.’

‘Do you have any more questions?’ Medea asked. ‘Otherwise, I think I’d better get back and tell the empress what you said. Though I don’t think she’ll take kindly to it.’

‘Very well, we’ll call for you if there’s anything else we want to know,’ said Probus. ‘You may go.’ He made a curt, dismissive gesture. Medea stared haughtily at him. With a quick smile at Flaminius, she turned and left.

Probus sat in silent thought for a while after she had gone.

‘A remarkable young woman,’ he said at last.

Flaminius was surprised. The last time he’d had anything to say about her he’d called her a whore. He felt a pang of jealousy. ‘She’s mine,’ he said half-jokingly.

Probus looked up. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to deprive you, lad. Each to their own.’

He rose. ‘I learnt a lot from that little chat.’ Flaminius wondered if the centurion was being sarcastic. He hadn’t heard anything himself that seemed new. ‘The mysterious disappearance of the note is very interesting. The fact that she was so insistent that the murder occurred before she reached you is also interesting.’

Flaminius narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Nothing—as yet,’ Probus said. ‘You know me. It will take more than a few words with your whore before I reach any conclusion.’

‘What’s our next move, then?’ Flaminius asked, ignoring the insult to Medea.

Probus produced the enciphered letter he had filched from the chief centurion’s quarters. He studied it quietly. Flaminius sat down behind his desk and searched fruitlessly for Medea’s note.

‘I think another visit to the cell is in order,’ Probus said. ‘I want to see if there are any other coded messages. It’s a variant on the Caesar cipher, certainly, but which one I’m not sure yet. Then I think I shall take a visit to the house of the Rufini Crassi.’

‘What do you expect to achieve by going there?’ Flaminius asked.

‘There have been two murders here, lad,’ Probus said, ‘and what we learn about the first will help us solve the second. Come with me.’

Flaminius suddenly felt very tired. He’d had very little sleep last night, but there had been plenty of running from lions and accusations of murder. The next he’d known he was back with Probus again, marching about the place investigating. It was all too taxing on the body and the brain. And the idea of riding to the Villa of the Rufini Crassi, wherever that was, was a bit too much. He had a strong urge to tell Probus he could carry out the investigation without him. Behind the curtain in the corner of the room was his pallet, and it was calling to him. Then he remembered what the empress had said. If they didn’t find out who really murdered Messalus, he would face another trial. And this time he didn’t think he’d get away so lightly.

Probus stood in the door, looking back at him. He lifted an eyebrow. With a manful effort, Flaminius rose and followed him from the room.

As they came out into the main corridor Flaminius saw a young Praetorian sprinting up towards them. ‘Sir, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come quickly!’

—8—

‘What is it, soldier?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Sir, it’s the empress,’ the Praetorian said. ‘She demands your presence in the palace. You must come, sir.’

Flaminius and Probus exchanged glances, then followed the Praetorian outside. ‘Looks like someone is chafing at her confinement,’ said Probus.

‘Having been locked up recently, I understand,’ Flaminius confessed. ‘All the same, we don’t want whoever did this to run for it.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Probus, ‘I should think it would be quite illuminating.’

They strode through the main gates of the palace, and the Praetorian led them to the chamber where they had left the empress and her entourage. The empress glared at them from the couch where she lay, picking angrily at a bunch of grapes. Dinner had been served, and the others were also eating. Flaminius noticed Medea on one couch, but she didn’t seem to have any appetite.

‘How much longer do you intend to keep us here?’ the empress demanded of Probus, ignoring Flaminius. ‘I received your most insolent message from my handmaiden.’

‘With what authority do you keep ma’am a prisoner in her own palace?’ added Septicius Clarus, who stood beside the empress’ couch, clutching his plumed helmet.

‘My authority is vested in me by the emperor himself,’ Probus said, producing the lance-head brooch that marked him as a member of the Commissary. He lifted a hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘It was necessary to keep you here,’ he said, ‘while I carried out my investigation…’

‘Then you’ve completed it, centurion?’ asked Septicius Clarus. ‘What conclusion have you reached?’

Probus picked up a chicken leg from a dish and casually began to gnaw at it. Sabina gave Septicius Clarus an astonished look. This was not the kind of behaviour she expected from soldiers.

Probus said round a mouthful of chicken, ‘No conclusion as yet, sir. With the aid of Tribune Flaminius I have examined the late chief centurion’s quarters, and interrogated your handmaiden.’ He indicated Medea, who looked up sullenly. ‘I shall be wishing to question everyone else who was present.’

‘This is intolerable,’ the empress burst out. ‘All for the sake of one dead centurion. Are we to be prisoners in a house that has seen murder committed? I wish to return at once to the palace in Rome, which contains happier memories. You say your authority comes direct from the emperor. Well, I shall have something to say to my husband when he returns from Britain, and we shall see if that authority extends to false imprisonment…’

‘Departure from the Villa will be deemed an admission of guilt,’ Probus told her, ‘and anyone doing so will be apprehended. In the meantime I shall pursue my enquiries elsewhere. Good day to you all.’

As the empress and her entourage broke into angry conversation, Probus led Flaminius from the room.

They returned to the barracks, going straight to the cell, which Probus inspected closely using a lantern. Flaminius joined him scanning the walls for further information. He learnt a lot about the alleged sexual proclivities of past centurions and the meagre artistic talent of former detainees, but nothing that could possibly be relevant. Apparently Probus found nothing either, but he took the trouble to note down the ciphered message that they assumed to be the work of Rufinus Crassus.

‘A wasted journey,’ Flaminius said as they left. ‘Before we set out, I’ve got a few administrative matters to get sorted, include setting patrols and promoting one of my centurions to the rank of First Spear. I’ll get that done and rejoin you in half an hour.’

‘I’ll meet you on the drive,’ Probus replied. ‘I suggest you promote Junius Italicus. Solely on grounds of seniority.’

Flaminius considered this as Probus marched off, a little unnerved that the commissary centurion knew so much about his cohort. He hurried back to his office. The administrative duties proved more complicated than he had expected, and he was at his desk for some time. Once he had completed them, he called Junius Italicus into the office.

‘Going entirely by your past record and your seniority to your comrades,’ he said, ‘I have decided to promote you to the rank of First Spear.’

‘Sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus, his beefy face betraying no emotion.

‘I do have some misgivings about this,’ Flaminius said frankly. ‘As you know, I clashed with your predecessor—so much so I am still suspected of his murder by some. Also, I don’t know you well enough to be sure I can trust you. Be sure that you don’t betray my trust, or I’ll…’

He paused, seeing Centurion Junius Italicus was paying close attention. Did he expect Flaminius to threaten to murder him?

‘Or I’ll have you demoted and sent to serve with the Sixth Legion in Britain!’ he finished.

‘Yessir,’ Centurion Junius Italicus said.

Flaminius frowned at him. ‘I’m going to leave you in charge tonight. You know your duties? The details are here.’ He handed his new chief centurion the duty roster. ‘That will be all,’ he added.

Centurion Junius Italicus saluted and marched from the office.

Going down the drive he found Probus waiting impatiently. ‘Sorry,’ Flaminius said, ‘but I couldn’t leave without completing my duties.’

‘Of course,’ said Probus. ‘As it happens, it gave me a chance to have a look round the place. I found it very interesting. I had a word with that Marsian witch, too. She wasn’t too willing to talk while the empress was still on the premises, but said she would tell me more after she had gone.’

‘Interesting,’ said Flaminius. ‘It sounds like she knows more than she’s been letting on.’

They obtained horses from the nearby stables and rode off down the track that led to the Tiburtine Way.

‘I assume you know where we’re going,’ Flaminius called to his companion.

‘To the house of the Rufini Crassi,’ Probus told him.

‘Exactly,’ Flaminius replied. ‘But where is that to be found? Do you know?’

‘Their villa lies on the outskirts of the town of Praeneste,’ Probus told him.

The centurion led them at a gallop through the quiet town of Tibur and then south along a shepherd’s track over the hills. Flaminius was nervous, expecting bandits at any point, quite possibly of Erichtho’s tribe, but Probus insisted that there was no quicker route to Praeneste. To go by road would mean riding back to Rome and then up into the hills again along the Praenestine Way.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the Villa of the Rufini Crassi, which was to be found in the foothills outside Praeneste, a great white walled edifice with a red tiled roof, surrounded by acres of olive groves and vineyards, approached by a flight of marble steps up a grassy hillside.

As they rode in from the track through the surrounding farmland, two slaves hurried out from the main portico to challenge them.

‘What business do you have here?’ asked the taller of the two, an elderly, stooped man with a cast in one eye.

Probus introduced them. ‘We are here to ask about the death of Rufinus Crassus.’ He showed them his lance-head brooch. ‘On the authority of the emperor himself.’

Flaminius wondered what Hadrian would think of Probus using his name so freely. It impressed the slaves, though, and they led Probus and Flaminius up the marble steps, through a peristyle garden and into the house.

‘Please wait here,’ said the tall slave, as they came out into an atrium. ‘I shall call the mistress, Octavia Agrippina.’

Both slaves vanished deeper into the cool, airy, well-furnished house. After Hadrian’s Villa, the house of the Rufini Crassi was something of a comedown, but it still possessed a distinct air of opulence. Certainly it was in an entirely different league from the farm where Flaminius had grown up, in the hills not far away.

Idly, he inspected the busts that stood at each corner of the atrium. Each one showed a hero of the Republic: Brutus; Horatius; Camillus; Cato. Flaminius groaned inwardly, remembering how dull he had found Roman history as a boy.

He heard the swish of a curtain from further inside the house and in stepped a tall, dignified, horse-faced woman clad in the deep blue of mourning. A slave woman followed her. The tall woman approached her guests, looking at each in turn. On seeing the plumed helmet Flaminius carried under his arm, she trembled a little, but she did her best to conceal her feelings.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said gravely. ‘I am Octavia Agrippina, relict of Lucius Rufinus Crassus. My slaves tell me that you are here on imperial business. I do not know what business the emperor has with me. Since my husband’s death the members of my family have kept away from Rome and concerned themselves with domestic affairs only. We take no interest in politics, not even the local politics of Praeneste.’

Probus nodded respectfully. ‘My commiserations on your husband’s death. I have no wish to rake up bad memories, but it’s on that subject we come to speak to you. I am Commissary Centurion Julius Probus; this is Praetorian Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus .’

She gave Flaminius a haunted look. ‘I recognised the Praetorian uniform.’ She wrung her hands. ‘What can I say? My husband was an idealist, obsessed with the Golden Age of the Republic.’ She gestured at the busts in each corner. ‘He was descended from several of the old families. He saw the age of silver to which we have come, where the Senate is powerless and mere provincials rule over us with the backing of the legions, and it saddened him. He fell in with bad company—idealists and historians such as himself, who hoped for a return to the old days. Ultimately, he made the mistake of attempting the life of the emperor.’

She shrugged. ‘I knew nothing of this, of course, before the empress’ birthday. He seldom confided in me except on domestic matters.’

‘That’s very interesting, ma’am,’ said Probus. ‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions about these idealist companions of his, but the real reason I came here was to inquire about his death itself.’

She took a step backwards and looked searchingly from Probus to Flaminius. Her eyes settled on the tribune. Gazing at him, she spoke to Probus. ‘I am forgetting my manners. Though a young man when he died, my husband always insisted on keeping up the manners of the Republican age. Come with me.’

She led them into another chamber and asked them to sit on well upholstered couches while she called for a slave to bring them wine and refreshments. As they drank and ate, she stood beside a bust that Flaminius recognised as that of Rufinus Crassus himself.

‘I should have thought you would have known more about my husband’s death than I! It came as a shock to me, that he should be killed without a trial, but what can one expect from a despot…’ She caught herself, and looked nervously from one to the other. ‘It would not have benefited the family if he had been put on trial in public, but even that would have been better than to murder him. He went to the shades without his killer’s name being known.’

‘If it’s any consolation, ma’am,’ Flaminius said, ‘we believe that his killer has also been murdered.’

Probus shot him a quelling glance.

‘Ma’am, the official story was that your husband died from a sudden distemper,’ he told her.

She forgot her good breeding so far as to snort. ‘Distemper? Surely you don’t believe that? He was in perfect health. There was no man his age healthier. Besides, there was what the Praetorian said.’

Probus and Flaminius looked at each other.

‘What did this Praetorian say?’ Probus asked.

‘I swore by the Magna Mater,’ she said, ‘never to speak of it.’

Flaminius glanced at Probus, to see the centurion completely nonplussed.

‘I see,’ Probus said. ‘I can’t ask you to break a vow made to a goddess, even a Phrygian one. But I can only assume that this Praetorian told you something that made you certain that your husband had been killed.’

‘On the orders of the emperor!’ she said, then put her hand to her mouth, as if to push the words back inside. ‘But I vowed not to speak of it.’

‘The emperor ordered your husband’s death?’ Flaminius said incredulously.

She glanced at him, her eyes wide with fear. ‘I can’t speak of it.’

‘Of course not, ma’am,’ said Probus, smiling uncomfortably. ‘This Praetorian who spoke to you. Was he a burly centurion, about my age?’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He was an officer, like your friend.’

‘I see. Was there anything about the body to suggest how your husband died?’

Octavia put a hand to her temples. ‘I don’t wish to discuss this anymore,’ she told him. ‘He made a mistake; he is dead. Why should anyone want to know more? We didn’t bring any charges, who would we charge? The emperor? Ha! No. Let the dead lie in their tombs.’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ Probus said respectfully. ‘We shall leave you now.’

He beckoned to Flaminius, turned, then stopped and looked back.

Octavia looked up. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You may depart.’ She clapped her hands, and the tall slave appeared in the doorway. ‘Please show these visitors from the house.’

Dusk was falling as they rode down the drive.

‘Rufinus’ widow seemed to think the emperor was responsible,’ said Flaminius. ‘And what was all that about a Praetorian speaking to her?’

‘I should think that she was threatened,’ Probus said. ‘Someone told her that the emperor had ordered her husband’s death. Perhaps that was why she had him taken away for burial so quickly that the cause of death couldn’t be established.’

They turned onto the Praenestine Way. Like most Roman roads outside towns, it was lined with tombs. Flaminius assumed that Rufinus Crassus’ own tomb was somewhere along here, containing his ashes. No point in looking for it. They’d get no answers to their questions that way, not without resorting to witchcraft. He smiled darkly. Perhaps Erichtho could help!

‘But who could it have been?’ he said as they reached the intersection where the track led off northwards. ‘She said an officer. It must have been a tribune.’

Probus grunted. ‘Or the Prefect himself,’ he said, reining his horse.

Flaminius copied him. ‘I told you that Prefect Septicius Clarus took a close interest in my love philtre when he visited me in my office.’ Probus nodded. ‘It must have been him who took it and poisoned Chief Centurion Messalus!’ Flaminius added. ‘Of course! He had overheard Messalus about to confess to murdering Rufinus Crassus and wanted to stop his mouth!’

‘Except,’ said Probus grimly, ‘he has an alibi. He is known to have been in the palace at the time of the murder.’

Flaminius’ face fell. ‘True,’ he said.

It had all been fitting together neatly up until that point. He had been positive that the Prefect had been part of the conspiracy. After all, it would make a lot of sense. The plot had revolved around the assassination of the emperor and his replacement with another one. In the past it had been the Praetorian Guard that made and unmade emperors; the man who led them possessed immense power. Septicius Clarus would have made an invaluable member of any such plot.

But it seemed he had an alibi for Messalus’ murder. In which case there was no real reason to assume he was the murderer of Rufinus Crassus, either. So who was?

They rode through the night.

It must have been past the third watch when at last they returned to the Villa, to find it apparently deserted. Flaminius marched into the barracks but found no sign of his cohort.

‘Anyone there?’ he called. The echoes of his voice disturbed an owl, which flew hooting from the roof.

After lighting an oil lamp that he had found in his office, Flaminius went back outside to where Probus waited with the horses. Moonlight shone down on the colonnades and temples on every side. Nothing moved. Occasional bird and animal cries from the surrounding parkland broke the night still.

‘The whole cohort has vanished,’ Flaminius reported, incredulous.

‘Never mind the cohort,’ Probus said. ‘There’s no sign of life anywhere.’

‘So they’ve all run,’ Flaminius said. ‘Feeling illuminated, centurion?’

He heard hurried footsteps from a nearby garden. He followed the noise out across a plaza to see a dark shape vanish into the shadows on the far side of a moonlit slope. Drawing his sword, he sprinted after it.

Probus hitched the horses to a pillar topped by a caryatid, and followed the tribune. He found him in the empty courtyard of a bathhouse. Flaminius turned at the centurion’s approach, face creased with puzzlement.

‘They just vanished,’ he said.

‘Of course they did,’ said Probus shortly. He took his vine staff and tapped on the flagstones. The third one gave back a hollow ring. Probus looked up at Flaminius, then stooped and hauled open a trapdoor. ‘You of all people should remember that there is a world beneath the world of Hadrian’s Villa.’

Flaminius peered wide eyed into the darkness, remembering his dramatic journey through the tunnels of Hadrian’s underworld when he foiled Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt. From far off came the echo of running feet.

—9—

‘A slave,’ he surmised.

The tunnels beneath the Villa had been built on the Hermetic principle of as above, so below. Just as the Villa represented the entire world, with its Greek and Egyptian areas, so the tunnels represented Hades. But they also served a more practical purpose, providing slaves with routes between the various buildings, so they could perform their duties without offending the eye of the emperor and his guests. It was easy to forget that a place this size required an entire army of slaves to keep it running smoothly.

‘Maybe down in Hadrian’s underworld we’ll learn what’s happened.’

Flaminius held his lamp high as Probus descended the ladder, then he followed him, climbing clumsily, one handed, as he carried the terracotta lantern in his other hand. Twice he spilt hot oil on himself and cursed under his breath. The cold hard stone of the shaft he was descending caught his whispering and magnified it, sending it echoing down into darkness.

At last he reached the bottom where Probus waited for him, a sardonic look on his bearded face.

‘I didn’t know your vocabulary was so colourful,’ he commented, then turned and led him up the wide, echoing tunnel. It was cold and Flaminius shivered in his armour.

‘Where’s that slave?’ he whispered as he caught up with the centurion.

Probus shrugged. ‘No doubt we’ll find him, or one of his fellows, soon enough,’ he said. They walked on.

The tunnel opened out into a larger space, gloomy beyond the radius of Flaminius’ lamp. Dark figures surrounded them. Flaminius held his lamp high and drew his sword. He saw several slaves, clad in drab tunics.

Probus drew his own sword. ‘Move away,’ he said curtly. Awed by the blade, the slaves drew back. One of their number pushed his way through the others and confronted Probus.

‘Apologies, master,’ he lisped. He was a bald, fat man with a high voice and a Greek accent; Flaminius thought he might be a eunuch. ‘We reckoned you must be thieves. We did not know any of the imperial household had remained in the Villa.’

‘Where’s everyone gone?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘Aboveground, the place is deserted.’

‘No slave would dare show his face above the surface without permission,’ said the eunuch. Flaminius was about to inform him that one of his fellow slaves had been seen aboveground, but he added, ‘Although the rules have been slackened now the empress has taken her household back to the palace in Rome.’

Probus cursed. ‘Openly defying me,’ he said.

‘What did you expect?’ Flaminius said. ‘An empress is hardly accustomed to taking orders from a common centurion. Do you intend to apprehend her?’

Probus grimaced. ‘She’s only throwing suspicion on herself with this action.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘The empress? You think she could have murdered Messalus? You think Hadrian’s wife set that lion on me?’

Probus scratched his chin, face creased in thought. He turned to the eunuch. ‘What do you know about the amphitheatre?’

The slave pursed his lips. ‘It’s seldom in use now that the emperor is away. One of the lions escaped from its pen but didn’t manage to get beyond the arena. A slave was badly mauled when they tried to get it back into confinement.’

‘Did you see how the lion escaped?’ Flaminius asked.

The eunuch shook his head. ‘I wasn’t there. I only heard about it. But they said someone had left the gate to the pen open. The slave in charge was beaten, but he swore that he had locked it after feeding time.’

Flaminius’ fingers were sore. He put the guttering lamp down on the ground. It was getting too hot. ‘I don’t think he was to blame. But who was?’

‘Where is this slave?’ Probus said. ‘I want to speak with him.’

The eunuch led Flaminius and Probus up a flight of steps. After a muted discussion with another slave, he led them to a cramped dormitory where several slaves lay on hard paillasses. The conditions that they lived under made the Praetorians’ lifestyle seemed decadent. Flaminius had never seen the living quarters of the imperial slaves before. On first entering the dormitory sector, he had seen several rooms that were clean and well-lit by small windows looking out over the park—clearly they were aboveground now. But these dormitories were cold, dank cells.

The eunuch shook the shoulder of one slave. He leapt from his bed and knelt cringing before the two citizens.

‘These soldiers wish to speak with you,’ the eunuch told him. The slave nodded without looking up from the ground. Flaminius saw that his back was bruised and lacerated.

Probus stepped forward. ‘You are the slave responsible for the lions in the amphitheatre?’

Still staring at the ground, the slave gave a quick nod.

‘You were beaten for allowing one to escape, is that right?’

The slave cringed back and said nothing. Probus leaned forward and lifted his head up. Flaminius saw a young face that was lined with the marks of suffering and eyes that seemed to stare into the abyss.

‘You say you were not responsible?’ Probus asked.

The slave stared at the ground again, not daring to respond.

‘Answer the centurion,’ the eunuch ordered.

‘If his lordship says I am responsible,’ the slave said, ‘then I am responsible.’

‘But you are not,’ said Probus. ‘Correct?’

The slave raised his eyes to blink at him. ‘I know I locked the pen up before I left,’ he said resentfully. ‘I know it.’

‘We believe you,’ said Flaminius, surprised to find his throat was dry. ‘Did you see anyone in that area before you went?’

The slave lowered his eyes and shook his head. Then he looked up again. ‘But after we had driven the lion back to its pen, I found a few white threads of wool caught in the lock. They smelt like a citizen’s toga.’

‘Smelt like a toga?’ Flaminius asked. He’d never noticed a toga having any particular smell, apart from his own which stank of sweat whenever he’d been wearing it for any space of time. All that wool was heavy.

‘That ammonia smell,’ Probus told him, ‘that you men about town try to conceal with scent.’

Flaminius put little thought into how his clothes were cleaned, but he did know that laundry slaves steeped togas in urine to clean them. A popular joke with more than a drop of truth in it claimed that the emperor Vespasian had taxed the distribution of urine for its use in industry. Flaminius knew that much of recent history, if nothing more…

‘Anything else?’ asked Probus. The slave shook his head.

‘Oh yes,’ he said suddenly, seeming to grow in confidence. ‘One of the threads was purple at the end.’

‘Hmm. A purple stripe,’ said Probus. ‘How thick was it?’

The slave shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Very well,’ said Probus. He regarded the slave. ‘How long until your manumission?’

The slave shrugged again. ‘I must buy myself out of slavery.’

‘Very well,’ said Probus. He handed the slave a gold coin. ‘Here’s a little something towards freedom.’

The slave fell to his knees clutching the coin, and Probus led Flaminius and the eunuch from the dormitory.

The eunuch, whose name was Clement, showed them a way to leave the slave quarters that took them out near the Vestibule, where on busier days guests to the Villa were greeted and led to the baths or the hostelry. That night it was deserted, a great echoing space. They returned to the barracks, stabled their horses, and found somewhere for themselves to sleep.

Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 10th April, 122 AD

The following morning, after a late breakfast of olives and wine soaked bread, Probus and Flaminius wandered among the deserted buildings. Poking about in Septicius Clarus’ office, Probus found a sheaf of notes written in the same cipher as the graffiti in the cell, and slipped them into his tunic.

Flaminius found the silence and the lack of people eerie, though not as eerie as the knowledge that beneath their very feet slaves might be passing down one of the huge tunnels of Hadrian’s underworld. There hadn’t been many people about previously, but at least his cohort had been present.

He wanted to know where they had gone. To the palace, presumably, or else back to camp. And on whose authority? Septicius Clarus outranked him… but it was something of a liberty. Of course, it could be suggested that he had been absent without leave. He dismissed the notion and returned his thoughts to the investigation.

‘You know that a slave’s testimony won’t count in court unless it’s produced under torture?’ Flaminius’ thoughts had turned to the events of the previous night.

‘I do know the law, yes,’ said Probus. He stood on the edge of a colonnade, leaning against one of the pillars that lined it. ‘We’d have got nothing from that wretch by torturing him.’

Flaminius sat down. ‘So what did we learn? A few threads of wool, one with purple dye...’

‘What does purple dye suggest to you?’ Probus interrupted, coming to sit beside him.

Flaminius stared at him. ‘A senator or an equestrian, depending on the width of the stripe.’ His own toga, which he had only worn on formal occasions even before he’d become a soldier, had a narrow purple stripe. Very pricey too. Purple was incredibly expensive. That was why the emperor wore a purple cloak, and why people spoke of “assuming the purple” when they meant becoming emperor.

‘A shame the slave couldn’t say how thick it was,’ Probus said. ‘If it had been a senator, we’d have our man. How many senators or equestrians were swanning about the Villa in togas that night?’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Flaminius. ‘The only equestrians I’ve seen about the place apart from myself have been the imperial secretary, Suetonius Tranquillus, and the prefect…’

‘Back to the prefect again,’ said Probus. ‘And yet he has that alibi. We’ll have to test it. It could be faked. Some questions need to be asked. It looks like we’ll have to follow the empress back to Rome.’

‘That’ll make us popular,’ Flaminius said. Sitting here watching the sun beaming through the trees, he didn’t really feel like going back to the city.

Probus rose. ‘Come on,’ he said. Unwillingly, Flaminius followed.

A quarter of an hour later they were riding out of the deserted Villa, up the track to the Tiburtine Way. Flaminius looked behind him as they galloped through the park. The Villa nestled tranquilly on its hill, without a sign of life. He wondered what the slaves were doing in the tunnels beneath, now that there were no citizens for them to serve.

It was late in the day when they reached the city and made their way through the bustling streets to the Castra Peregrina on the Caelian Hill. Probus had decided to go there before continuing his investigations. But as he was entering his office at the back of the building, Flaminius in tow, another centurion approached and told Probus that Cassius Nero was looking for him.

‘He wants a word,’ the centurion added ominously.

Probus looked at Flaminius. ‘You’d better come with me, lad.’

They reached the office of the chief commissary centurion shortly afterwards. Probus rapped irritably on the door. A gruff voice said, ‘Come.’ Probus pushed open the door and strode in. Flaminius followed into the medium sized office, a little nervous.

Centurion Cassius Nero was a large man in his late fifties, whose silver hair sat oddly atop a youthful, impossibly handsome face marred by lines of care, jowls like a tomcat and a nose so broken it was almost flat. He sat back in his simple chair, one foot up on the desk, and looked suspiciously at Probus.

‘I’ve had complaints about you, Julius Probus,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

There was a scar on his neck, in the shape of a star. Flaminius had heard that he had been shot in the throat with a Sarmatian arrow while in the legions, and although he had survived, it had had a permanent effect on his voice.

Probus grabbed a stool and perched on it without waiting to be invited. He gestured irritably at Flaminius to sit. Flaminius smiled appealingly at Cassius Nero.

‘Sit, boy, sit,’ the centurion whispered. Flaminius sat, feeling like Ulysses in the cave of the cyclops as the two big men glared at each other.

‘Complaints?’ Probus barked. ‘Who’s been complaining?’

Cassius Nero’s jowls wobbled in disgust. ‘Never you mind, Julius Probus! I agreed to this investigation you proposed, although there’s been no word from the emperor, on the condition that you’d keep a low profile.’ He gestured at Flaminius. ‘This lad was seconded to the Praetorians so you’d not need to shove your own repellent snout into her imperial majesty’s affairs. And what’s this I hear you’ve been up to? All without my authority, might I add?’

Flaminius was about to point out that it had been his idea to ask Probus to get involved when he thought better of it. Anyway, Probus should have told the Chief what he was doing.

‘I have complaints of my own to make,’ Probus blustered. ‘I told the empress and her entourage to remain in the Villa but they blatantly disobeyed me! And before that, someone tried to murder my assistant.’ He gestured at Flaminius in his turn.

Cassius Nero put a hand to his brow. He removed it and looked straight at Probus. ‘We in the Commissary,’ he whispered, ‘are very privileged. Literally above the law, we answer only to the emperor. That does not mean, however, that you can put the empress under house arrest! You’re acting as naively as I would expect this lad to behave.’

He waved a hand at Flaminius, who quietly resented his suggestion; he wondered if he should remind them of his name, since they both seemed to have forgotten it.

‘By the way,’ Cassius Nero went on, ‘her imperial majesty also complained about you carrying off the Praetorian tribune on duty.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Obviously I couldn’t explain that he was one of our undercover agents.’

‘You must understand the need for this investigation,’ Probus said. ‘Do I need to explain it to you again? There was a murder, politically motivated. The most likely suspect has also been murdered and my assistant has been blamed. He’s no longer under suspicion, ironically the empress has demanded that he investigate the murder for her, but whoever’s responsible for one murder must surely be responsible for the other. And who benefits? Whoever it was who induced Rufinus Crassus to make an assassination attempt on the emperor. Do you want me to give up the investigation just because the empress has had her nose put out of joint?’

‘That’s enough, centurion!’ Cassius Nero wheezed. He calmed down. ‘Yes, I understand the need. We need to root out all potential traitors and conspirators—not with pre-emptive strikes like Prefect Attianus, which served only to confirm the Senate’s fears about Hadrian, but through unobtrusive investigations. Unobtrusive, Probus. Now, we have this lad as an undercover agent. Assuming his cover hasn’t been blown, I see no reason why he can’t continue to investigate. Indeed, you say the empress had commissioned him independently to do exactly that.

‘But you, Probus, need to back off. As soon as they see you’re involved, the conspirators will be afraid that the emperor is investigating them and they will panic; go to ground or feel that their hands are being forced. We could lose all the advantage we have gained or else we might be faced with a premature strike for power. More haste, less speed; that was always Augustus’ maxim.’

‘Leave it all to the lad?’ Probus said. ‘That’s never going to work, you old fool.’

‘Centurion Probus!’ Cassius Nero said reprovingly. ‘You’re going too far.’

Flaminius looked from one to the other. ‘I…’ he began.

Probus looked at him irritably. ‘What is it, lad?’

Flaminius sighed inwardly. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to continue the investigation,’ he said, ‘now I have the empress’ blessing. And I think we could use Medea as an agent. She’s been helpful so far.’

‘Me stay in my office while you indulge your usual penchant for melodrama?’ Probus growled. ‘Next thing we know you’ll have seduced the empress herself, you young dog!’

Cassius Nero wheezed with laughter. Flaminius grimaced. ‘Little chance of that.’ She was old enough to be his mother!

‘So there was no need for you, Probus, to poke your nose in without being asked,’ added Cassius Nero.

‘I was called in,’ Probus said.

‘You were what?’ Cassius Nero demanded. ‘By whom?’

Probus smiled humourlessly. ‘By the lad here. He didn’t think he was capable of carrying out the investigation on his own.’

‘So you didn’t just go blundering in?’ the Chief said.

‘No I did not!’ Probus exploded. ‘The lad sent for me!’

‘Flaminius,’ Flaminius insisted.

‘Yes, Flaminius,’ Probus acknowledged. ‘You say you’ve trained this handmaiden as an agent?’ he added, changing the subject. ‘Very enterprising. But is she trustworthy?’

‘Of course!’ Flaminius said. ‘She’s been very helpful so far.’

‘She refused to provide you with an alibi for Messalus’ death,’ Probus growled.

Flaminius brooded.

‘We weren’t together at the time of death, so she couldn’t, in all conscience,’ he said at last. ‘She’s an honest girl.’

‘The worst kind.’ Cassius Nero laughed hoarsely. ‘And you propose this “honest” girl as an agent? She’ll get eaten alive.’

‘No,’ said Probus. ‘The lad—sorry, Flaminius—has a point. She’s in a good position to learn what we need to know.’

‘We may not need to endanger her,’ Flaminius added. ‘I’ve been commissioned to investigate, and why shouldn’t I speak to her? I’ll have some explaining to do as far as my having left the Villa goes, but I’ll make sure that they realise it was all your fault.’ He grinned. ‘You can stay here and decipher those notes we found.’

‘Thank you,’ Probus said, ‘so much.’

Cassius Nero gave his wheezing laugh. ‘Very well. Probus, you’re to stay behind in base. We’ll let this keen young tribune prove himself. If that falls through, we have other agents.’

‘You mean Medea, sir?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Oh yes, Medea…’ Cassius Nero rasped. ‘Among others.’

—10—

Rome, Palatine Hill, 10th April, 122 AD

A quarter of an hour later, Flaminius marched up to the latticed gates of the Imperial Palace. A complex of buildings constructed at various points in Rome’s history, the palace stood upon the ridge of the Palatine Hill, overlooking the Roman Forum on one side and the Circus Maximus on the other.

Two Praetorians stood on guard, wearing togas like citizens, with nothing to hint at their true identity other than military belts and the inevitable military haircuts. Flaminius was similarly dressed; he wore a concealed sword beneath his toga, just as he knew the guards did. The law stated that weapons could not be carried within the sacred precincts of Rome, and the Palatine Hill was at the heart of the city. Concealed weapons were not really permitted, but the emperor needed some protection from his beloved citizenry.

Flaminius saluted the two guards, members of his own cohort. ‘Tribune Flaminius reporting for duty,’ he said formally.

‘Watchword?’ asked one guard.

‘Vigilance!’ Flaminius replied.

The guards exchanged glances. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said one worriedly. ‘We do recognise you, of course, but the password was changed on orders of the Prefect himself. We can’t permit you to enter.’

Flaminius shouldered up to the man and stared him in the eyes. ‘Are you refusing to allow your own tribune access to the Imperial Palace?’

It was hot, and the climb from the Roman Forum had tired him. He wasn’t ready to argue with Praetorians.

‘Sir,’ said the guard. ‘I must obey my orders.’

‘It’s alright, soldier,’ came a gruff voice as a familiar figure stepped from a wicket gate. ‘Her imperial majesty has given orders that Tribune Flaminius be sent to her the moment he reaches the palace.’

First Spear Junius Italicus gave Flaminius a frown, then led him past the motionless guards into the cool, dark depths of the Imperial Palace.

‘When there was no sign of you or Centurion Probus,’ Junius Italicus answered Flaminius’ questions in a whisper, ‘the empress grew angry, and resolved to return to Rome as she had wished. She wouldn’t let a centurion tell her what to do, whatever his authority. The Prefect took over your command. I had no option other than to do as he ordered.’

Flaminius looked at him oddly. He seemed less sullen, more helpful than before. Perhaps his promotion had altered his view of Flaminius.

‘I see,’ was all he said.

He allowed his centurion to lead him to a pillared courtyard garden at the back of the House of Augustus, the central building of the palace complex. Here the empress sat sunning herself while a few of her handmaidens sat nearby, chatting and giggling. Medea was not present.

Two Praetorians discreetly stood guard in opposite corners of the garden, while Suetonius Tranquillus sat on a cushion, glowering at a scroll he held in his hand as he declaimed in a drone. Prefect Septicius Clarus stood over the empress, his hands folded. Flaminius was now beginning to realise why the prefect had seldom been seen at the Praetorian camp; he was constantly at the empress’ side. At least he was while the emperor was away.

Septicius Clarus turned in surprise as Centurion Junius Italicus marched up and saluted. Flaminius echoed the salute and Septicius Clarus returned it. The empress gave a ringing peal of laughter, followed by her handmaidens.

Septicius Clarus grinned. ‘You find our soldierly solemnities amusing?’ he asked. Suetonius Tranquillus looked up irritably from his scroll.

The empress fanned at her face, then directed a slave with an ostrich feather to do the same. ‘You certainly are solemn,’ she said. ‘You know, it’s unusual, but I feel happier in the palace here than I did at the Villa. Usually it’s the other way round.’ She grew solemn. ‘Perhaps it is because this place has not been polluted with death.’

‘Ha!’ said Suetonius Tranquillus, looking up from his scroll. ‘If you permit me to continue my reading, I will persuade you otherwise.’

The empress shuddered. ‘Why must you always rake up such lurid tales?’ she asked. ‘This obsession with Augustus and his successors. Why can’t we hear more of the stories Livy told, about the good old days of the Republic?’

‘Because Livy has already told them,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘I see I’m not appreciated here. If your imperial majesty will permit me, I shall return to the library and continue my researches.’

‘Very well,’ said the empress vaguely. ‘I must speak with Tribune Flaminius, besides. I have no time to listen to the fate of Domitian just now.’

Suetonius Tranquillus strode from the courtyard. The empress turned to gaze up at Septicius Clarus, and reached up to touch his hand. They exchanged a smile, and then she turned to regard Flaminius. Septicius Clarus followed her gaze. His jovial face turned solemn.

‘You have some explaining to do, tribune,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to do your duties.’

‘You vanished from the Villa without asking my permission,’ the empress said coldly. ‘It put me in mind of what that odious centurion Probus had said, about wanting to see who would run. I know you have been exonerated from this murder, but you did cast suspicion on yourself. Where have you been?’

‘I went with Centurion Probus to carry out my investigations,’ Flaminius said.

‘I will have words about that centurion with my husband when he returns,’ the empress murmured disapprovingly. ‘Very well, you are forgiven. I am glad to see that the hero of yesterday has not become today’s villain. Now please return to your duties!’

Flaminius nodded to Centurion Junius Italicus and they both saluted before marching from the courtyard.

In the duty tribune’s office Flaminius familiarised himself with his duties. ‘Has the Night Watch been set?’ he asked. Centurion Junius Italicus nodded. ‘Watchwords given?’ Centurion Junius Italicus nodded again. ‘Patrols set?’ Centurion Junius Italicus nodded yet again. A little forlornly, Flaminius said, ‘Is there anything that needs doing?’

Centurion Junius Italicus shook his head. ‘We didn’t know you’d be back so soon. The prefect had me take on all your duties. Everything that needs to be done is done.’

Flaminius fretted with a stylus on the desk, while Centurion Junius Italicus sharpened his sword, whistling to himself. Flaminius rose abruptly.

‘I think I’ll just… check the patrols,’ he said.

‘Yes sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus, not looking up. Flaminius strode towards the door. ‘I believe that the handmaiden Medea is in her quarters in the Flavian House.’

Flaminius paused in the doorway and stared suspiciously at Centurion Junius Italicus. Now, how could the centurion know that was his real intention? He was about to ask, then thought better of it, and strode out into the marble corridor.

The passageways of the palace were cool and hushed, except for occasional patrols of toga-clad Praetorians or chamberlains and slaves scurrying about their business. He found the handmaidens’ quarters in the opulent Flavian House, which stood adjacent to the House of Augustus. He tapped lightly on the studded door. A dark skinned girl opened it, and a cloud of scent wafted into the corridor. He asked for Medea.

The Greek girl appeared in the doorway.

‘Are you busy?’ Flaminius asked. He saw the dark girl watching from further inside. ‘If you’re not doing anything, I was wondering if you’d like to take a turn around the outer peristyle garden.’

He heard the dark girl giggling to herself. Other titters came from elsewhere within the perfumed chamber. He got a confused impression of drapes and hangings and more perfume.

Medea nodded, and slipped outside, closing the door behind her. ‘I was wondering what had happened to you.’

Flaminius led her down the passage. ‘I was with Probus,’ he said. ‘We went to speak with Rufinus Crassus’ widow in Praeneste. She…’

‘Don’t tell me any more,’ she begged, and bit her lip. Flaminius looked at her in surprise. What was wrong?

They stepped out into the sunlight of the garden, and strolled along a gravel path lined with box hedges. ‘We rode back to the Villa to find everyone had gone,’ he told her. ‘I was worried that my cover might have blown.’

‘The empress was angry,’ Medea said, ‘and Septicius Clarus declared it was a sign you really were guilty of Messalus’ murder, and were fleeing justice. I knew you weren’t, of course.’

‘Thanks,’ said Flaminius. ‘But do they suspect I’m an agent?’

Medea stared at him then looked away. ‘Why would they think that?’

Flaminius studied her. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the fact I went off with Probus, I suppose.’

‘The empress hasn’t said she thinks you’re an agent.’

‘What about Septicius Clarus?’

Medea turned her gaze on him. ‘Stop worrying,’ she said. ‘Carry on with your investigation. I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of this conspiracy.’

Flaminius gazed at her. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure I will,’ he said, but he lacked conviction.

‘What’s going to be your next move?’ she asked, as they continued walking.

Flaminius said nothing for a moment. What would Probus do? ‘I suppose I should make a few more inquiries,’ he said. ‘Do you know what’s happened to Messalus’ body?’

‘I think it was taken to the Praetorian graveyard,’ Medea said, ‘for cremation. Why? What did you want it for?’

Flaminius scratched his head. ‘To confirm that everything Erichtho said was right, I suppose. I want to talk to her again.’ He halted. ‘Then there’s Suetonius Tranquillus,’ he added.

‘The secretary?’ Medea asked. ‘What about him?’

‘Probus seemed to think talking to him would be useful,’ he said. ‘I’d like to know about that argument he had with the prefect.’ He glanced at Medea. ‘We think Septicius Clarus may have something to do with it.’

‘He does have an alibi,’ Medea reminded him.

‘True,’ said Flaminius, ‘so he didn’t poison Messalus’ wine himself. But maybe he had an accomplice who did.’

Medea said nothing. They walked in silence for a while. Then she said, ‘Be careful, Gaius.’

He looked at her. She seemed troubled, but he wasn’t sure what was worrying her. He scowled. He was getting nowhere here. The moment he could get away he would go back to Probus find out what the centurion thought. He mentioned this to Medea, but she made no reply.

‘I really appreciate you helping me,’ he said, waiting for a response.

‘I must be going,’ she told him, and walked away.

He stood looking after her, puzzled. Something had happened, he could see. In the Villa? Or back here in Rome? Or had he done something wrong? For the life of him, he couldn’t think what. But she had changed.

He strolled the corridors of the palace, greeting freedmen and senators, checking on his patrols. He called into the palace library, but found no one who could tell him where Suetonius Tranquillus had gone.

Soon it was evening, and he went to oversee the changing of the Guard. The Night Watch arrived from the camp and the Praetorians who had been on duty in the day were ready to return to barracks. He gave the new men their briefing and led the day watch from the palace.

Halfway across the torchlit Roman Forum, he said to First Spear Junius Italicus, ‘You take the men to the Praetorian camp, centurion. I have business elsewhere.’

‘Sir,’ said the centurion, and Flaminius hurried away.

He glanced back to see the centurion watching him sidelong as he led the guards north from the Roman Forum, towards the distant camp.

Passing the looming mass of the Colosseum, he made his way up the Caelian Hill. A narrow, winding street led him to the Castra Peregrina. As he followed it he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw someone dodge back into the cover of a doorway.

Uneasy, he slipped his hand under his toga and felt the comforting solidity of his sword hilt. He waited for a few minutes, but saw nothing else.

He shrugged, and continued on his way to the Castra Peregrina. Here he gave the password to the men on duty and hurried down the drab passageway to Probus’ office.

‘Come,’ the centurion said after Flaminius knocked on the door. Probus looked up to greet him. His desk was scattered with wax tablets and scraps of papyrus, scrawled with incomprehensible strings of letters.

‘Still working on that cipher?’ Flaminius said. He took a seat without waiting to be asked, picked up one scrap of papyrus and tried to read it.

Probus snatched it irritably from him.

‘Yes I have been, as a matter of fact,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve worked out that it’s certainly not the conventional Caesar cipher, but I’m sure that it’s something of that kind. It’s just a case of working at it. And you? What have you been doing? It’s a bit early for you to come back to report. I can’t imagine you’ve got much done this afternoon.’

‘Well,’ said Flaminius, ‘I’ve established that I’m in the clear.’ He told Probus what Medea had said. ‘I’m a bit worried about her, though,’ he added. ‘She seems… I don’t know, scared.’

Probus grunted. ‘Think she’s been got at? Been turned?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Why would she have been? They don’t suspect me. I’m still their hero, even if they did accuse me of murdering Messalus at one point. What bothers me is the fact that someone in the imperial household murdered Messalus, and whoever it was must be part of the conspiracy that murdered Rufinus Crassus to conceal his connection with them. Someone is still working against the emperor, even if the original coup was foiled by us.’

‘Someone is indeed still working against the emperor,’ Probus said, ‘and if we can root them out, then the emperor will be protected, Rome too. Trajan overstretched the empire, but his aggressive policies were intended to unite people against a common foe. Things had begun to turn inwards, resulting in conspiracies and division at the heart of things. Now Hadrian is turning things in another direction, building up the defences, drawing lines in the sand.

‘That’s fine, much better than pursuing absurd military adventures in Mesopotamia, but the danger is that here at the heart of things, idle hands will work against him. If we can root them out, we’ll be doing him a service. Otherwise one day he’ll turn round from his wall building and border defending and he’ll have a revolt on his hands. And the Praetorians have always been at the spearhead of revolt.’

‘Right,’ said Flaminius. He was accustomed to these impromptu speeches from Probus. The centurion had never made any formal study of rhetoric, but he didn’t allow that to deter him from expressing his opinions at length.

‘When I crack this code,’ Probus added, waving a piece of papyrus about, ‘I should think we’ll be able to learn more about the plot. Not just who is in it, but what they’re planning to achieve.’

‘You think they intend to do more than murder a few inconvenient co-conspirators?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking they’ve given up,’ Probus warned him, ‘just because we caused them a few difficulties. They won’t give up until they’re all exposed and the emperor has had a chance to judge them.’

Flaminius sat back. Probus scowled at the papyrus. Then he rose, stretched, and produced an amphora and poured them both beakers of rough wine. They sipped it in silence.

‘What you need to do,’ Probus said, ‘is keep your ears open, and talk to people. Officially you’re investigating the centurion’s murder. This Medea—does she provide regular reports?’

Probus had problems seeing things in terms other than those of military intelligence. ‘Informal reports,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Verbal, not written.’

‘Wise,’ said Probus approvingly. ‘Written reports can get you in a lot of trouble, unless they’re in code of course.’ He glowered at the papyrus. ‘But you say she’s proving unreliable.’

‘Cranky,’ Flaminius agreed. ‘Maybe she feels that she’s getting in too deep. It’s not as if she’s on the payroll.’

‘Talk to Suetonius Tranquillus,’ said Probus. ‘He’s a clever fellow. Writes books, you know. I wanted to chat with him, but maybe I’d better keep myself scarce for the moment. I can’t imagine he’s in the conspiracy, and he’s quarrelled with Septicius Clarus recently. Maybe you could turn him. Get him to tell you what he knows.’

‘But if he is in the conspiracy,’ Flaminius argued, ‘won’t he go running to the chief conspirator?—unless he is the chief conspirator!’

‘Sounds him out,’ Probus advised. ‘Be circumspect, as you say. But he knows something. You have to find out what. He may well prove more useful than that Greek girl.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Flaminius. ‘We needn’t put Medea through any more. I’ll see if I can sound out Suetonius Tranquillus, like you say.’

‘Very well,’ said Probus. ‘Now you’d better return to duty.’

‘I’m off duty now,’ Flaminius explained, ‘since the Night Watch has taken over, but I suppose I’d better get back to the camp.’

Tomorrow he’d speak with Suetonius Tranquillus.

He strode from the Castra Peregrina and began making his way down the alleyway that was a short cut down to the Roman Forum. It was night now, since the sun had set while he was talking to Probus.

As he walked, he went over everything in his mind. This was a completely different situation from the one he had known when he was up in Caledonia. There the enemy had been easily identified, or at least it had seemed so. Now he didn’t know who to trust or who to be wary of.

So that was the difference between barbarian country and Roman civilisation. Both could be terrifying, in his profession. Or perhaps it was just the nature of his profession. He felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days when he had been a tribune of auxiliary horse…

Hearing a footstep behind him, he turned quickly. Was that a figure dodging back into cover? Frowning, he watched for a while. Why would anyone be following him? Probably it was someone as scared as he was, if not more so. Dismissing his fears, he turned round to continue.

He halted as two tall, bulky figures detached themselves from the shadows, blocking out the distant light from the street. He couldn’t see their faces, but in the little light that was left, two sword blades glinted.

He drew his own sword from beneath his toga and gripped it firmly in his right hand. ‘Alright, lads,’ he said, deliberately coarsening his voice, ‘what’s all this about? You realise you’re messing with a Praetorian?’

The figure on the left laughed harshly, then lunged.

—11—

Flaminius brought up his sword to parry the lunge. Steel rang in that narrow, stinking alley, and a cat sped, spitting and yowling, over a crumbling wall. Flaminius felt the force of the blow run up his arm.

The second attacker, a smaller, burlier fellow, came at him from his left, slashing at his ribcage with his sword. Backhanded, Flaminius brought his sword back to parry the blow, but as he did so, his first attacker lunged again and he felt a white hot flame lick his side; the man’s point had sliced through the thick wool of his toga and ploughed through an inch or two of chest. He cursed out loud, rammed his right foot down on the man’s instep, and smashed his elbow into his opponent’s sternum, hoping to send the man staggering back into the wall. But the man stood as firm as the Tarpeian rock, and the other one stabbed at Flaminius again. Flaminius stepped backwards to avoid the attack, his legs constrained by the wrapping of his toga, and he collided heavily with the far wall of the alleyway.

Fighting in a heavy woollen toga proved to be clumsy work, so he shrugged it from his shoulders and stood before them clad only in his tunic. He flung his toga at the bigger attacker then lunged at the smaller, who parried the attack clumsily, although Flaminius managed to get in a cut at his upper thigh. Struggling out of the toga’s folds, the bigger man leapt forward, catlike in his agility, and struck at Flaminius’ helmetless head. Flaminius ducked the blow, then came up again, sword raised, but the smaller man lunged forward, striking the blade with his own and almost knocking it from Flaminius’ grip.

The tribune saw that both wielded the longer cavalry sword of the kind he had used in Britain. The shorter sword he carried as a Praetorian, the Spanish model, were little more than daggers in comparison.

In a sudden flurry of blades, his two opponents attacked in concert, and Flaminius’ sandaled feet splashed in the noxious puddles of the alley as he leapt back and forth to parry their blows. The bigger man stepped back panting and Flaminius tried to stab him, but the smaller one thrust his sword at his side. Flaminius managed to twist away in the last second but again the blade sank into his flesh, gashing his thigh. The bigger man swung wildly at his head, and he brought his sword up to parry.

He was panting for breath and his head swam. He could feel warm, sticky blood running down his leg. Apart from the other night, when he had escaped from the lion in the amphitheatre with Medea’s aid, he had seen no real action since he rescuing the emperor from the assassin’s blade. But his two opponents were fighting fit, thieves who had no doubt plied their trade in the alleys of Rome whenever the Watch was unavailable to deter them.

And where was the Watch? Never there when you needed them…

The smaller attacker sprang forward again, cutting in low. Gasping hoarsely, Flaminius leapt backwards, to find the wall at his back again. Now the bigger man came in from the side. Flaminius swung to defend himself but too late as a sword point gouged into his left arm. He staggered back, almost dropping his sword as he tried to push himself up with his sword arm. The smaller man stuck out a foot and he tripped over it, falling flat into a stinking puddle. His sword fell with him but went clattering off across the cobbles.

Flaminius rolled over at once, gasping for breath, to see the two men silhouetted against the night sky high above, swords lifted for the final strike.

A blade glinted in the dim light. One of the men, the bigger one, groaned piteously, and slumped to one side. The other spun round, turning his back on Flaminius. The sound of swordplay rang out in the alley a second time. Flaminius crawled on his hands and knees to the puddle where his sword lay.

He grabbed it, got up, turned, and was bowled over by the smaller of his two attackers, who forced his way past and sprinted down the alleyway. He was running from the dark figure who stood over the bigger attacker’s slumped form. Giving his rescuer a curious glance, Flaminius gave chase.

He came out onto the street. It was empty.

He looked up and down. It wound up the side of the Caelian Hill; in the distance, he could hear the muted sounds of revelry. Closer, came the angry scream of a cat—perhaps the one they had disturbed earlier. It seemed like that had happened in another aeon, but the entire fight could only have taken a couple of minutes. Otherwise, nothing.

He turned and made his way back up the alleyway. Someone had come to his rescue, and he wanted to thank them, whoever it was. Returning to the spot where he had left him, Flaminius found only the prone form of the big man. He knelt beside the body, reaching out to pull back the hood that covered his face. As he did so, he heard running feet from further up the alley. He looked up but saw no one.

Examining the body, he saw that it was a bearded man with a military haircut. He wore a tunic and over it a hooded cloak. In his hand was a sword of the kind used by auxiliary cavalrymen. The man was quite dead.

And his mysterious saviour had fled the scene without waiting for thanks. How noble. How mysterious.

Flaminius inspected his wounds. None of them were serious, but they all needed cleaning and binding. Although the Castra Peregrina was much closer, he decided he would return to the Praetorian camp before he had them tended to. Something stopped him from wanting to return to Probus in this state. For the moment he bound his wounds with strips torn off the dead man’s cloak, then covered it all with his toga, though it was mud stained from having been trampled on throughout the fight.

He limped through the streets, keeping away from any shortcuts that might result in further attacks. Had his assailants been the robbers that plagued Rome’s night streets, despite the efforts of the Watch? The one he had examined had looked like a Gaul or even a German, despite his civilian clothes. A deserter from an auxiliary troop? Or would one of the Imperial Horse Guard troops—savage barbarians whose troops had first been raised by the emperor Trajan while he was still a soldier in Germany—be reporting a member absent without leave?

As he crossed the Roman Forum and made his way uphill through the streets that led towards the camp, it became clear to Flaminius that he had enemies. First there had been the lion episode at the Villa. Now this. It could only be that someone had sent the two men, whether they were soldiers or bandits, to kill him. Someone knew that he was getting close to the truth.

When at last he returned to camp, he entered his cohort’s barracks and went straight to his quarters, brushing aside anyone who tried to speak to him. Wearily, he cleaned his wounds and dressed them himself, drank deep from an amphora of wine, then went to his pallet to seek the healing balm of sleep. Despite his weariness, it took him a long time, and when he did fall asleep, his dreams were filled with foreboding.

—12—

11th April, 122 AD

Early the following morning he woke to find his limbs were stiff and painful, but when he inspected his wounds they seemed to be healing. He went down to the camp surgeon to have them inspected, fobbing off the inquisitive Greek medic with a half true story of getting into a fight in the city after a night of drinking. When he returned to his barracks he found the members of his cohort on day duty lined up, ready for the march to the palace. Centurion Junius Italicus looked the worse for wear, as if he had really spent last night in debauchery. He had no wounds, though, and he made no comment on Flaminius’ bandages.

Returning to the palace they went through the ritual of the changing of the guard, and then Flaminius organised the patrols. This done, he retired to his office with Centurion Junius Italicus. They had sat down and he began to read the Night Watch report.

‘You don’t seem very curious about these,’ he remarked, indicating his bandaged wounds.

‘I’m sure the tribune came by them in the course of honour,’ Centurion Junius Italicus said without a twitch of his lips.

Flaminius studied the man covertly as he pretended to read the rather dull report. Junius Italicus seemed oddly unsurprised by his wounds, but there was obviously more to his words than met the ear. Fear gripped him. Was Centurion Junius Italicus implicated in the conspiracy? Had he even been one of his attackers? No, that wasn’t likely. If anything he was more like the man who had been killed, not like the rat who ran.

It wasn’t the centurion’s place to pass comment on his superior officer’s condition, but it seemed inhumanly virtuous to be so well bred about it.

‘Stay here,’ Flaminius said after reading the report. ‘I’ll check the patrols.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus.

Again Flaminius thought he detected an unidentifiable undercurrent of meaning to his words. Dismissing the mystery, Flaminius left the office and limped down the fresco painted corridors, passing through the high pillared marble halls to the palace library that he had visited the previous day.

The room, with its frescos and busts and its walls lined with pigeon holes for scrolls, was quiet and almost deserted. But the figure stooped over a reading table to one side of the room, poring over an unrolled scroll, proved to be Suetonius Tranquillus. Flaminius coughed and the man looked up. There was a cloudy look in his eyes, and Suetonius Tranquillus didn’t seem to recognise his visitor at first.

‘Can I help you?’ the imperial secretary asked, regarding the intruder dubiously. Then his eyes cleared. ‘Tribune Flaminius, isn’t it? The hero of the hour, saviour of the emperor. We met at the Villa.’ He frowned. ‘Terrible to hear what happened there after my departure. It’s quite set ma’am against the place. Rome itself these days is such a place of smokes and stink that it comes as a relief to visit the Villa and walk in its gardens. There are some tolerably good libraries there, too, but nothing comparable with the palace.’

‘You must know a great deal about the history of this place,’ Flaminius said. ‘My knowledge of history ends with Caesar, I’m afraid. My tutor didn’t tell me much about what happened after he was murdered.’

Suetonius Tranquillus pursed his lips. ‘The fellow showed good taste, in my opinion,’ he said. ‘The period has had few good historians. That provincial fellow Tacitus has written a little on the subject, of course, and I myself am working on a full history of Caesar and his successors, which you’re welcome to read when it’s completed.’ He paused. ‘In fact, since you’re so interested, I’ll let you read my recently completed second book, which should aid your understanding.’ He went to a pigeon hole and drew out a scroll which he took over to Flaminius, ignoring his protests that he didn’t want to cause the secretary any bother. ‘Augustus,’ Suetonius Tranquillus explained. ‘It’s an uncorrected proof, you understand, so there could be errors,’ he added, defensively. ‘As you surely know, it was in Augustus’ day began the age of iron that we live in today, this dark age.’

Flaminius accepted the scroll gratefully and secreted it in his toga for later reading. He looked around the tranquil library in surprise. In the distance was a faint hubbub of noise from the Roman Forum, but here in the palace, all was hushed and quiet, nowhere more so than the library. He wondered what Suetonius Tranquillus would think of the place if he’d ever served on the frontier, but he kept his opinions to himself. Then again, last night’s little encounter had shown that even the city had its dangers.

‘You think it was better in the good old days, do you?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Oh, undoubtedly, young man,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured, surprised that anyone could think otherwise. He crossed over to a bust of Cicero and studied it thoughtfully. ‘In the days before Caesar, the Senate was in power, the Republic flourished. People were, in the main, virtuous and religious. Today, what do we see? Debauchery, vice, Greek manners eclipsing those of the old Romans… The emperors attained their position with the mob at their back, not through election like the consuls. My friends and I deplore these innovations.’

‘Ah, your friends,’ said Flaminius. ‘Of course, the prefect is one of those friends. Although I thought you had fallen out with him while you were at the Villa. Does he share your views?’

‘Oh, we all do here,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘We all have the same views of the Republic, can’t stand the ghastly reality that is the present day. I’m something of an intellectual leader amongst those who surround the empress,’ he added boastfully.

He frowned. ‘For your information, young man, I did have an argument with the prefect. I found out that something was going on behind my back that I didn’t like. But it’s nothing I should like to discuss here.’ He went to an amphora on a stand, glanced at Flaminius inquiringly and when the tribune nodded, poured glasses for both of them.

‘Of course, of course,’ said Flaminius, and Suetonius Tranquillus put them down on the table. ‘I hope matters between the two of you have improved.’ The tribune frowned. ‘It seems odd to me that the empress’ entourage should be so opposed to the modern age. Considering the emperor himself is responsible for the way things are.’

Suetonius Tranquillus shrugged. ‘Hadrian is a fine fellow, of course,’ he said piously, raising his voice. ‘There is no one more loyal to him than I. I have known him since he was quite a young man, when a friendship with the senator Gaius Caecilius Pliny led to my employment as imperial archivist by Trajan. It provided me with an ideal opportunity to study the letters and documents of the last century or so. Invaluable for my histories. But the more I read the more I became persuaded that this age of emperors is a dreadful one. Emperor after emperor has expanded the empire until it can grow no further, and now Hadrian rushes about the borders plugging leaks in a wall that can hardly hold back the barbarian tide forever …’

He trailed off and suddenly scribbled something in the margin of his scroll. ‘A wall… barbarian tide,’ he said to himself. ‘Dike wall? Floods… Plato’s fable of Atlantis…’

While he was distracted, Flaminius took the precaution of swapping the two goblets of wine. He didn’t think the secretary was likely to be a murderer, but it paid to be cautious.

Suetonius Tranquillus looked up again. ‘Apologies. My turn of phrase…it… I thought I’d note it down. A bit rough, that image, but with some work…’

‘So you became disillusioned with the present day?’ Flaminius asked patiently, taking a sip from his wine.

‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ said Suetonius Tranquillus. ‘Who isn’t?’ He sipped at his own wine, but showed no ill effects.

Flaminius had heard all sorts of doom-and-gloom prognostications from people Suetonius Tranquillus’ age. Probus, for example, was prone to predicting the immediate collapse of civilisation. Maybe it was because they were old, and their own deaths were not far away. As far as Flaminius could see, life went on. The empire endured. Nothing lasts forever, but he had more important things to worry about than civilisation’s decline.

‘You’re loyal to the emperor?’ he asked.

Suetonius Tranquillus drew himself up. ‘Of course!’ he said, raising his voice again. ‘His imperial majesty is a personal friend of mine. And I am so grateful that you foiled that assassination attempt last year. I’m glad to be able to thank you.’ He shook Flaminius’ hand vigorously, and laughed. ‘I hope you’re not sounding me out for my loyalty, tribune,’ he added. ‘My antipathy towards the present day does not conceal a personal dislike of Hadrian. I think I mentioned earlier that I first met him when I was Trajan’s secretary. I think it was after I returned from Bithynia, where I had served under Pliny, who was governor of that province.

‘The young Hadrian was a fine man, although’—he lowered his voice—‘unseemly rumours hung about him of… dissipated behaviour… and heavy debts.’ He paused. ‘I feel sorry for his wife, of course. He only married her for ambition’s sake, you know.’

‘She was Trajan’s niece, wasn’t she?’ Flaminius said.

The imperial secretary nodded. ‘His marriage to her—and she was quite a young girl at the time—was purely to cement his relationship with the reigning emperor. They’ve never had a happy marriage; he spends so much time away from Rome. The Senate also criticises the emperor behind their hands for keeping away from Rome so much of the time, concerning himself with far flung provinces like Egypt, Britain or Mauretania. I too think that he should concern himself more with the city, or one day it will become an impoverished backwater in an obscure corner of its own empire. But I often think that the real reason he stays away from Rome is to keep away from his wife.’

Flaminius laughed at this, but Suetonius Tranquillus looked at him sadly and said no more.

‘They’re not happy together?’ the tribune asked.

Suetonius Tranquillus leaned forward. ‘I don’t believe his imperial majesty is interested in women at all,’ he hissed. He drew back a little, as if astounded by his own audacity. ‘Myself, I was very interested in women as a young man, but my own marriage was almost enough to put me off them forever. I slake my lusts without becoming involved. Women have little interest to me, either, but nor do boys.’ He pursed his lips and lowered his voice again. ‘I fear the emperor’s love of all things Greek extends as far as… Greek love. If you understand me, young man.’ He winked.

Flaminius had heard much the same from Messalus. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps the empress felt neglected, with her husband keeping away from her and spending time with boys. But neglected enough to conspire against him? No, that was absurd.

‘How long have you known the prefect?’ he asked. Suetonius Tranquillus was gazing abstractedly into the distance.

The secretary shook himself and looked round. ‘Oh, Septicius Clarus? We’ve know each other for many years. We argue now and then, over women usually, but we’re firm friends despite having little in common. I first met him in Bithynia, of course, working for Pliny.’

Flaminius gathered that Suetonius Tranquillus hadn’t always been a stay-at-home bookworm. But Bithynia was in Asia Minor, on the Black Sea coast, a rather more civilised region of the empire than, say, Britain.

‘What was he doing there?’ Flaminius asked.

‘He was commanding a cohort of legionaries based in the province, as I recall,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘We were both friends of Pliny’s and we all had quite similar literary tastes. Bithynia was at peace when Pliny was there, although he had some trouble with the provincial elite; they were all Greeks, of course. The Greeks think they invented everything, and the Bithynians resented being governed by a mere Roman. They seemed to think paying taxes to Rome was unreasonable, but when Pliny made a few concessions to the notion that they were culturally superior, they seemed happy to pay, thus saving the province from bankruptcy. It seems the Greeks also invented vanity!

‘It also paid if one was be able to demonstrate that one was culturally equal to the Greeks. Pliny was as learned as any Greek, and so was I. Septicius Clarus also benefited from a classical education, although of course he was also a soldier. Pliny himself had been in the legions in his younger days. He tried to obtain the post of legionary tribune for me at one point, but I turned it down; I felt I lacked the authority for dealing with common legionaries. Septicius Clarus was very friendly in those days. I suppose he is these days as well, but he seems to have become more crabbed, more suspicious. More backward looking…’

‘How do you mean?’ Flaminius asked. ‘He certainly seems friendly and upright to me, although he has a tougher side to him.’ The man’s attitude had changed dramatically when Flaminius came under suspicion of murder.

Suetonius Tranquillus shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is the pressure of work. He is Praetorian Prefect, after all. One of the highest administrative jobs in the empire, and like all the serious jobs available these days, one that the emperors have never entrusted to a senator.’

‘Why’s that?’ Flaminius asked.

Suetonius Tranquillus shrugged. ‘Every ambitious senator—and there’s no other kind—secretly fancies his chances as emperor. The legions would not accept an equestrian like you or I as emperor. So the emperors have always trusted persons of our lowlier rank in the most important positions. Other than governors of provinces and magistrates and so forth; those posts are always given to senators, for the look of it as much as anything. But even that has caused problems before. In the year of my birth, the long year, the Year of the Four Emperors[6], every senator who controlled enough legions made a grab for power. It was much like in the years of civil war that threw up Caesar and Pompey and finally Augustus. My own father fought under one of those warring emperors… But I digress. Where was I?’

‘Septicius Clarus,’ Flaminius prompted him.

‘Oh yes, fine fellow,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured vaguely. ‘We have our disagreements, of course, but perhaps it’s because we have so much in common.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘We have many tastes in common, it would appear.’

‘Literary tastes?’ Flaminius asked. ‘A longing for the old days?’

‘Yes, yes, those of course,’ Suetonius Tranquillus admitted. ‘But I was thinking of…’ He shook his head. ‘No, that’s not something I should be talking to you, of all people! Most indiscreet of me, I apologise. I’m sure the empress wouldn’t like it either.’

Flaminius was confused. He hoped the man arranged his writing rather better than he organised his thoughts. ‘How long have you known the empress?’ he asked. ‘You seem to be one of her favourites.’

‘One of her favourites,’ Suetonius Tranquillus echoed, emphasising the first word. ‘I’ve known her since she was young, even before she married that rising star, Hadrian. No emperor in those days, but the favourite, if you like, of Trajan. As I said, his marriage with ma’am made it clear that Hadrian would be the former emperor’s successor, although of course there were rivals in those days. It was Hadrian who brought Trajan of Sacred Memory the news of Nerva’s death, you know?’

‘Nerva?’ Flaminius’ poor knowledge of recent history was telling on him again. ‘Wasn’t he emperor?’

‘Briefly, yes,’ said Suetonius Tranquillus. ‘Nerva was declared emperor by the Senate after Domitian’s death. He had the potential to be the best emperor Rome has ever known, a paragon of Republican virtue. But he was an old man and looked soon to die. And die he did, shortly after—of natural causes, too, not the Praetorians… Oh! Sorry, just my little joke. I forgot who I was talking to...’ Flaminius shook his head and gave the secretary a tolerant smile. ‘Trajan of Sacred Memory had been nominated as his successor, but it was Hadrian who brought him the news,’ the secretary added, and frowned. ‘It was something of a race between our current emperor and his brother in law, Julius Ursus Servianus.’

‘Ursus Servianus,’ Flaminius mused. ‘Yes, I’ve met him. An old man himself.’

‘Who isn’t, these days?’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘Present company excepted, obviously, young fellow. We were all young back then, of course. The empress was a maid of seventeen summers when she married Hadrian, and he was twenty four, in his prime. They had little in common and have never been close, despite being cousins.’

‘Cousins?’ Flaminius nodded his understanding.

It seemed everyone in the imperial retinue was closely related, but this seemed closer than most. Growing up on his parents’ farm, he’d know a few local families where the parents were that closely related. Now he felt a certain relief that the emperor and empress had never had children.

He grimaced. ‘You say that the emperor finds satisfaction with boys. But what of the empress? She must be very frustrated. Or does she find satisfaction elsewhere?’

Suetonius Tranquillus bridled. Flaminius saw he had overstepped the mark.

‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting!’ he said, looking shocked. ‘The empress Vibia Sabina is chaste and maidenly, nothing at all like empresses of former days. She is the epitome of maidenly Republican modesty, a woman of taste and distinction who does not sully herself with the grubby notions that clearly fester in your brain, young man.’

But somehow he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. Flaminius had a sudden vision of the matronly empress on her back, being serviced by entire cohorts of Praetorians.

‘My apologies,’ he told the secretary. ‘I’ve met her myself, and she is a fine woman, of course. Surely the emperor would never have married her otherwise.’

Suetonius Tranquillus looked pensive.

‘As I said, Hadrian married her purely from ambition. He doesn’t appreciate her finer points, I’m sure, as I… as many do.’

Feeling awkward, Flaminius decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me about Ursus Servianus,’ he said. ‘When you left he turned up at the Villa. I understand he’s the emperor’s brother in law. He looks a little elderly to be the empress’ brother.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Suetonius Tranquillus irritably. ‘He’s the husband of Paulina, the emperor’s elder sister. Also from Spain, he also found favour under Trajan. He was a friend of Pliny, so I’ve known him many years. Many expected him to be designated Trajan’s heir.’

‘But Hadrian was chosen instead?’

Suetonius Tranquillus paused. ‘So we are led to believe,’ he murmured. ‘But Trajan of Sacred Memory kept delaying the nomination of his successor, as if he expected himself to live for ever. In the end he favoured the younger Hadrian over the ageing Ursus Servianus. It wasn’t the first time Ursus Servianus came second in the race.’

‘You said them competed to bring the news of Nerva’s death to Trajan,’ said Flaminius.

Suetonius Tranquillus nodded. ‘Hadrian won on that occasion, and he won out over all.’ The secretary shrugged. ‘That rivalry is ended now, of course. Though there was that business shortly after Hadrian’s accession…’

‘The Praetorians assassinating Hadrian’s rivals?’ Flaminius remembered what he had heard from Messalus shortly before the centurion’s death.

Suetonius Tranquillus nodded. ‘Ursus Servianus must have counted his lucky stars that he didn’t also receive a visit from a Praetorian centurion, considering their previous history. Perhaps the emperor spared him because of his friendship with the empress.’

‘You really think that the emperor had those men murdered?’

Suetonius Tranquillus nodded. ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘The senators killed included the Mauretanian Lusius Quietus, that dashing auxiliary cavalry commander, and several other men who had worked against Hadrian throughout Trajan’s reign. No emperor would stand for that once in power. No emperor would permit their survival. See how Tiberius treated Sejanus when he threatened to overshadow his master[7].’ He paused. ‘Maybe Claudius would have allowed it,’ he added, ‘but the man was a complete fool.’ He frowned at Flaminius. ‘Emperors aren’t elected like consuls or magistrates, you know; they seize power from those too weak to hold it, even if they do make feeble claims to have been nominated by their predecessor. The whole business is unconstitutional, like the worst kind of oriental despotism.’ He paused. ‘Of course, I’m an old man with my head in a book, dreaming of the past. Ignore my opinions, please.’

‘You clearly know a great deal about the imperial court,’ Flaminius told him, ‘both now and in the past. I’m not going to ignore you, I assure you. I find it all fascinating.’ He tapped the scroll the secretary had lent him.

‘Do you?’ Suetonius Tranquillus seemed astounded. ‘So few people find my studies of interest, particularly youngsters. It’s contrary to the spirit of the age to look back at what has been and gone. We’re heading towards something else, but who knows what? The end of the world, some people say. Obviously the empire doesn’t have long to survive, but what will take its place? A new Republic, perhaps?’

Flaminius remembered the Caledonians he had encountered at the edges of the empire. He tried to imagine a world in which Rome was no longer there to keep them back. It augured a terrible future where barbarians strutted proudly about the ruins of Roman culture, chattering in their incomprehensible barbarian jargons as if they were the equals of the people they had subsumed. A dark, terrifying vision. Despite the warmth of the room, he shivered.

‘But surely I’m keeping you from your work,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘You must have so many responsibilities.’ He coughed, and indicated the scroll he had been reading, ‘And so, of course, do I.’

Flaminius put down his wine glass and rose. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. I must return to my duties.’ He limped towards the door.

‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured as Flaminius opened it. The tribune looked back to see the man peering at his scroll again. Suetonius Tranquillus glanced up to favour him with a twinkle. Flaminius nodded respectfully, and left the library.

As he made his way through the corridors of the Flavian House, he thought long and hard over what he had gleaned from the secretary. On joining the Commissary, while still a tribune in the Ninth Legion, he had discovered how much of the job involved sifting through information and learning to distinguish between the valuable and the worthless. What had he learnt today? Was any of it of value?

He remembered the scroll Suetonius Tranquillus had lent him, and stopped off in an alcove to glance through its contents.

There are many indications it began that the Octavian family was in days of old a distinguished one at Velitrae; for not only was a street in the most frequented part of town long ago called Octavian, but an altar was shown there besides, consecrated by an Octavius. This man was leader in a war with a neighbouring town, and when news of a sudden onset of the enemy was brought to him just as he chanced to be sacrificing to Mars, he snatched the inwards of the victim from the fire and offered them up half raw; and thus he went forth to battle, and returned victorious... [8]

Flaminius sighed, and scanned through the rest for anything juicy. He began walking, keeping one eye on the scroll as he unrolled it, another on the deserted corridor.

He does not strictly comply with orthography, that is to say the theoretical rules of spelling laid down by the grammarians, seeming to be rather of the mind of those who believe that we should spell exactly as we pronounce. Of course his frequent transposition or omission of syllables as well as of letters are slips common to all mankind. I should not have noted this, did it not seem to me surprising that some have written that he cashiered a consular governor, as an uncultivated and ignorant fellow, because he observed that he had written ixi for ipsi…[9]

Flaminius was about to give up in disgust when he read the next line. His eyes widened in sudden fascination.

He heard footsteps from behind him, and a voice say, ‘Sir?’

Turning, he saw Centurion Junius Italicus approaching.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, sir,’ said the centurion. ‘The empress wishes to speak with you.’ He frowned. ‘She seemed surprised when she heard that you were here at all.’ He indicated the bandage on Flaminius’ left arm. ‘She’ll want to know where you got that.’ He glanced at Flaminius and there was a knowing look in his eyes.

‘That’s enough, centurion,’ Flaminius told him uncomfortably. ‘She wants to speak to me, does she? Where will I find her?’

‘Her imperial majesty is currently in her bedchamber,’ Centurion Junius Italicus told him, ‘on the first floor. Do you know where it is?’

‘I know it,’ Flaminius told him. Rolling up the scroll and slipping it back into his toga, he hobbled off towards the flight of steps.

What did the empress want with him? And why was she surprised to know that he was present in the palace? It wasn’t time for another cohort to take over this duty. His mind ran back to the fight in the alley the previous night. Had his attackers just been robbers? Or had they been sent by an unidentified enemy?

Consumed by trepidation, he mounted the stairs.

—13—

He was shown into the empress’ chamber by two of his Praetorians, who stood on guard at the doors.

The room was large, hung with drapes, dimly lit by lamps although it was still sunny outside, and the air hung heavy with scent. A mosaic floor showed a depiction of the Graces, while on the walls were frescoes depicting nymphs pursued by satyrs and gods. Daphne ran from Apollo on one side, while Paris assisted Helen in escaping from her husband’s house on another. In the corners stood statues of goddesses, eyes apparently averted from the goings on that covered the walls. If the empress shared Suetonius Tranquillus’ distaste for all things Greek, perhaps the emperor had been responsible for the décor. Or maybe not, Flaminius told himself, eyeing a statue of Priapus near the window.

Looking relaxed and tranquil in their heavy woollen togas, the Praetorians announced him. ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus !’

The empress reclined on a couch on the far side, with her handmaidens clustered round her. Today she had her hair in a traditional tutullus hairstyle, and wore a stola of midnight blue. The girls were listening attentively as another handmaiden read one of the Amores of Ovid from a scroll. As Flaminius was announced, the girl reading from Ovid faltered and halted, and the empress sat up.

‘Welcome, tribune,’ she called, her voice echoing in the stillness. She turned to another of her companions. ‘Go, bring the tribune to my side.’

As the girl approached, seemingly unwillingly, Flaminius saw that it was Medea.

‘Hello,’ he said to her in a friendly undertone.

‘Hello,’ she said distantly. ‘The empress wishes to speak with you.’ She took his hand and led him across the chamber.

‘Any idea what about?’ he asked quietly as they traversed the mosaic floor.

Medea darted her a glance. ‘She will tell you.’

Unspeaking, she led him to where the empress lay. A girl provided a stool for the tribune to sit on. The empress clapped her hands.

‘Leave us,’ she instructed them. The girls flittered off, all except Medea, who hovered.

‘Your imperial majesty,’ she said. ‘You surely don’t want to be left alone!’

‘I surely do, young woman,’ the empress told her frostily. ‘Go with the others!’

With one last look at Flaminius, Medea followed the others through a side door.

Flaminius wondered what that look had meant. Something had come between him and Medea, and he didn’t know what it was.

‘Thank you for coming at my summons,’ the empress said, gazing at him as she propped up her head on her arm.

‘When my empress calls…’ Flaminius said gallantly.

‘You may be aware,’ she went on, ignoring his reply, ‘that I have ensured that you will no longer be burdened with that odious commissary centurion. I have spoken to his superior.’

‘I heard something of the sort,’ said Flaminius quietly.

‘The impudence of the man!’ the empress said. ‘He really seemed to think he had the right to ask any questions of simply anyone while aiding you in your investigation into the murder! I don’t know why you asked for his aid, I really don’t, but it was an unwise choice. Who poisoned your centurion, and why, may never be known, unless you can find persuasive evidence. I believe that his body has been returned to his relatives and they have already cremated it, so there can be nothing to be gained from an examination of the body—there isn’t a body…’

‘Erichtho said that it showed all signs of cantharadin poisoning,’ Flaminius remarked.

‘Of course,’ said the empress. ‘And it was your cantharadin, wasn’t it?’ She gave him an indulgent twinkle. ‘I’ve spoken to my handmaiden, the Greek girl. She’s been reprimanded for attempting to seduce you. We can’t have such goings on among the staff!’

That explained Medea’s recent coldness. This haughty bitch was at the back of it. ‘But surely you want justice to be done?’ he asked. ‘You were very quick to put me on trial…’

‘That was Septicius Clarus’ doing,’ the empress said soothingly, laying a hand on Flaminius’ arm. ‘At the time, I spoke out. Nothing was to be gained by linking the name of such a promising young Guards officer with the poisoning of his subordinate. Usually the prefect does everything I say. He’s a tough man on the surface, despite his learning and his sense of humour, but if you get to know him as intimately as I have done, you’ll see that he’s as soft as a new born chick beneath it all.’

‘I doubt I’ll have a chance to get to know him as well as all that,’ said Flaminius with a laugh. He wondered just how intimately the empress and the prefect did know each other.

The empress laughed in return. ‘You’re really quite as witty as your superior,’ she said. She studied him keenly, her eyes bright. ‘Guards are so difficult to get to know as people. Such tough exteriors, like old leather. It took me a long time to get past Septicius Clarus’ public exterior, but it was an enjoyable experience.’ She gazed into his eyes. ‘I shall enjoy getting to know you too, tribune. Tribune Flaminius, isn’t it?’ She paused. ‘Or should I call you Gaius?’

Flaminius swallowed. Just where was all this leading? ‘In fact, your superior and I have had a disagreement,’ she confessed. Her breath was sweetly scented. ‘He wasn’t pleased with me appointing you to investigate the murder.’

‘So you never thought I was the murderer?’ Flaminius asked.

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Why would you poison your centurion? If he had offended you, surely you could have had him put to death.’

‘I don’t think it’s quite that easy,’ Flaminius told her with a grin. ‘Not for a man of my rank, anyway. Messalus would have had to have done something a bit more than offend me for me to be able to put him to death. What’s more, he’d have to do more than that me for me to want to murder him!’

‘Of course you didn’t murder him,’ she said. ‘But have your investigations produced any clue as to why anyone would want to murder him?’ She shuddered. ‘He seemed quite a lovely little man.’

Flaminius couldn’t quite square this description with his memory of Messalus. ‘He had enemies,’ he told her.

‘Enemies?’ the empress asked. ‘Why would such an insignificant man have enemies? He was no more than a rank and file soldier.’

‘In fact,’ Flaminius went on, ‘he confessed to me that he was a murderer himself.’

The empress sat up, her eyes wide with shock. ‘You mean he killed people?’

‘He was a soldier,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘That sort of thing is part of the job.’

‘Oh!’ she replied, settling back. ‘I see. Is that all you meant? Killing barbarians, defending Rome, that sort of thing. I suppose you did some of that yourself, even if you are such a young man; I mean when you were off in Germany or wherever it was.’

‘Britain,’ said Flaminius. ‘Where the emperor is at the moment. But I didn’t just mean…’

‘Britain,’ the empress mused. ‘Is it really a dangerous place? Is my husband at risk of his life, do you think?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Flaminius reassured her. ‘Britain’s a dangerous place, yes, but if you’ve got three legions to defend you, and two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, you’re hardly as badly off as you would be if you were alone against the barbarians.’

‘And that was you?’ she asked. ‘Did you first become a hero by fighting barbarians? Before’—her eyes narrowed—‘before you rescued my husband.’

‘I suppose you could describe me like that,’ he said.

The empress shivered. ‘I’ve never really met a barbarian,’ she said, ‘apart from the Imperial Horse Guards. And I don’t really know them. They’re big and handsome and blond, but none of them really speak much Latin, and what they do is with such an appalling accent…’ She paused. ‘And this is what Centurion Messalus did? You think that made him enemies?’

Flaminius pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘He had… other duties,’ he told her.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘No I don’t. What did he do to make enemies? Who were his enemies? Maybe it was them who murdered him!’

‘Now that’s a good question,’ Flaminius said.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘I thought you were supposed to be investigating.’

‘I haven’t really fond out very much,’ he said.

‘No idea who killed the centurion?’ she asked.

‘The investigation is ongoing,’ he said solemnly.

As if by accident she ran her fingers up his arm. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad that odious commissary centurion is no longer involved. And I’m glad the investigation is being carried out by someone I can trust.’

The implications sank in. Flaminius felt excited, not to say aroused. Was the most powerful woman in the empire that impressed by him? He gazed into her eyes. She was old enough to be his mother, but there was something undeniably attractive about this woman. They say power is an aphrodisiac. If it could be bottled, the world would need cantharadin no longer. His eyes fell on the statue of Priapus and he felt a certain sympathy for the god’s perennial condition.

She drew him close. ‘Sit with me,’ she murmured. ‘I want to get to know my investigator. All I have heard is that you’re a hero, and they’re ten a denarius in the Guard.’

‘I don’t think I ought to, your imperial majesty,’ he said awkwardly. ‘What would your husband think?’

She looked bitter. ‘I’m sure he’s happy with his catamites.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘So formal, Gaius! We’re friends now. You’ll address me as “ma’am.”’ Her voice hardened. ‘That is an order, tribune.’

She was clearly accustomed to getting her own way. A little uncomfortably, he placed himself on the couch beside her, afraid he might be about to commit lèse majesté. If he had the measure of this woman, what she wanted could hardly count as loyalty to the emperor. He had sworn a vow. And yet…

‘What’s to know?’ he asked, a little hoarsely.

Her thigh was soft yet firm against her own, his nostrils were filled with her scent—the world was. It was intoxicating, as if her skin exhaled the strongest vintage of wine. He had problems thinking.

‘Where are you from?’ she began. ‘How did you come to join the legions? You must be Italian born to qualify for the Praetorians. Not like me. I was born in Spain, though of Roman stock.’

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Yes, my family has lived in Latium for generations. We own a small farm in the hills. Somehow we’ve kept a hold of it, despite mounting debts. But our life is very boring, not like your own.’

‘A pastoral idyll,’ she romanced with a quiet smile. ‘A life of stern Republican virtue.’

‘Hardly,’ said Flaminius with a laugh. ‘Deadly dull. I couldn’t wait to get away—although life in the legions wasn’t much of an improvement.’

‘You wish to live the high life?’ she asked. ‘Luxury saps the spirit. I should know that.’ She gestured round the room. ‘No, the clean hard life of the smallholding farmer is far superior.’

You should try it some time, Flaminius thought, but he kept his opinions to himself. This woman was a fool. Why had the emperor wanted to marry her? Oh, of course, the secretary had just told him; for the succession. And it seemed that the empress, fool that she was, held the keys to power for Flaminius as well. He’d have to keep her sweet.

‘Since I’m investigating the murder,’ he said, ‘perhaps I should ask you a few questions.’

‘I?’ She looked incredulous. ‘I know nothing of poison and murder. I suggest you talk to Erichtho. I will call her presently.’

‘I just want to ask you a few questions about when you were at the Villa, and what you might have seen and heard. Anything could shed light on the centurion’s death.’

‘How thrilling,’ she commented, laying a hand on his chest. ‘You really are a most exciting young man, Gaius. You want to interrogate me! What fun! Will you torture me if I refuse to speak?’ She giggled, then paused, as if collecting her thoughts. ‘I was woken from my sleep by a slave to be told that one of the soldiers had been poisoned. I really didn’t think it was important enough to warrant waking me at such an hour, and after that long, slow journey from Rome, too. But Septicius Clarus persuaded me that I should make an appearance.’ She laughed. ‘He seemed to think that I would be incriminating myself if I didn’t.’

‘Where was Septicius Clarus?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Present in the palace?’

‘Yes, Gaius,’ she said. ‘Sleeping in… the room next to mine.’

Why did she pause like that? He remembered what Probus had suggested was going on between the empress and the prefect.

Idly she began to caress him through the thick wool of his toga, kneading his muscular body like a cat. ‘What else do you wish to know?’ she asked, meeting his eyes again.

It was difficult to carry out an effective interrogation under these conditions. He kept wondering what would happen if someone found them.

‘What happened next?’

She shrugged and pouted. ‘I put on suitable attire and accompanied the prefect to the Praetorian barracks. This was before you returned, with my handmaiden.’ She reached up and pinched him. ‘That was naughty,’ she added chidingly. ‘Arranging trysts with one of my girls. It was then that I could see you were the sort of unprincipled rogue I’d like to get to know better.’

‘But before I returned,’ he persisted. He didn’t want to explain the real reason Medea had arranged the meeting; after all, he still wasn’t quite sure himself. ‘What do you remember happening then? You went to the barracks. And then?’

‘We encountered Ursus Servianus first,’ she said, slipping a greedy, questing hand under his toga. ‘He was up already.’

‘Was he now?’ Flaminius said uncomfortably. ‘Tell me what you know about that particular senator, ma’am.’

‘Ursus Servianus?’ she asked with a start. ‘Surely he’s not under suspicion? He’s such an old bore!’

‘You seem to like him,’ he commented. ‘Inviting him to the Villa, going to his house in Rome…’

‘He’s family,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My sister in law’s husband. My husband thinks the world of him. I tolerate him, but he’s really a rather dull old man. I let him preside over the trial so he felt like he was doing something worthwhile. He’s rather washed up these days.’

‘I heard there was bad blood between him and the emperor,’ Flaminius commented.

‘Between my husband and Ursus Servianus?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Who told you that?’ She shook her head. ‘No, they’re good friends. I seem to remember some rivalry back in the days when Trajan was emperor. My husband was a very earnest junior officer back then, rather like someone else I can think of. Ursus Servianus was older, more staid, but just as eager for Trajan’s favour.

‘He married my husband’s sister Paulina, a woman much older than Hadrian and even duller than he is, so he has been connected with the family for a long time. When Nerva died and it was obvious that Trajan had the best chance opportunity to succeed him, Ursus Servianus and my husband competed to be the man to bring the news to him. Rather engaging, really! Men are such boys at heart, even if they’re as old as Ursus Servianus, who has been simply ancient as long as I can remember.’

Was she trying to cover for something? This seemed to contradict what Suetonius Tranquillus had said, perhaps not in its basic facts, but she had a very different take on what had happened. She also seemed to be growing bored with the conversation, and more interested in exploring his body beneath his toga. He didn’t know how far he could take this.

‘So, you encountered Ursus Servianus,’ he said. ‘What did he say to you?’

She looked up, her gaze a long way away. ‘He wanted to know what all the noise was about,’ she murmured. ‘We went to the barracks together, and the guards told us what had happened. Simply horrifying, that such a thing should go on under one’s own roof. Suetonius Tranquillus had only recently been reading to us out of his interminable book on the Caesars, about a Gaulish lady called Locusta who is said to have poisoned the Emperor Claudius, and several other people. I thought that kind of thing no longer went on, and yet there it was, under my own roof. Poisoning.’

She shuddered delicately against him.

‘Erichtho was called. I remembered what you had spoken of, suggesting that Rufinus Crassus was poisoned, and how she had shown some expertise in the matter. You know, for a while I wondered if she hadn’t been at the back of it…’

‘Why was that?’

She pursed her lips. ‘Simply because she knows so much about poison,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t think of any reason why she would kill a stodgy old centurion. She began examining the body and then you and my handmaiden appeared. And the plot thickened—or so it seemed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Flaminius asked.

She stroked his cheek. ‘Erichtho confirming that it was cantharadin poisoning… and mentioned the fact you came to her for cantharadin earlier in the day—though I must say,’ she added meaningfully, ‘you don’t seem to need it for the customary purpose—plus there was the fact that even Medea couldn’t provide you with an alibi. It seemed quite simple.’

He took her chin in his hand and gazed into her eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting,’ he murmured. ‘Are you saying you still think I murdered Centurion Messalus? And here you are, trying to seduce me!’

She laughed. ‘Trying? Succeeding very well, I should say. You’re hardly spurning my advances.’

‘But do you really think I murdered Centurion Messalus?’ he persisted.

She shook her head. ‘Gaius, two men have died in the Villa since it was built. A mystery hangs around both of them. You surely agree with me that it is not to my husband’s credit that these events should be made public knowledge any more than is necessary. You know full well that the senators despise my husband for the bloodbath that began his reign.’

‘But that’s in the past,’ Flaminius said. ‘These more recent deaths…’

‘…are not something to be bruited abroad,’ she told him firmly. ‘Very well, Rufinus Crassus’ death is known, but few speak of it today. The death of this centurion must not be shouted from the rooftops or people may remember the senator’s death, which still remains a mystery—but it occurred while he was in Praetorian custody. None of this is to my husband’s credit. I will not have his name dragged in the dirt. I do wish to know if you can learn who was responsible for both deaths. When you know, report to me, and we will see what action is to be taken. If it is to my husband’s discredit, then it is something a loyal citizen would be quick to suppress.’ Her eyes glinted with tears even as she caressed him. ‘I love my husband…’

‘Your husband…’ Flaminius interrupted, astonished by the hypocrisy of the woman.

‘My husband doesn’t understand me,’ she said quietly, with a sob. Flaminius’ eyes darted about, as if seeking some kind of escape. Tentatively, clumsily, he put his arms round her and she lay her head on his brawny shoulder.

‘My husband doesn’t love me,’ she added, her voice still tremulous. Flaminius had heard that one from married women before, and it never boded well. ‘He has no interest in women except as stepping stones in his career; he prefers young boys. It’s disgusting! Humiliating! I should hate him for it. And yet, I still love him. I have as long as I have known him. Can you imagine what it’s like to be in a loveless marriage with someone you have adored all your life?’

She sobbed again, and he rubbed her shoulder encouragingly. As she wept, he tried to mentally compose a new report to Probus.

What he had learnt put a new perspective on things. This haughty woman, with her hypocrisy and barely veiled, unthinking contempt for people below her social station, with her little cabal of Republican fantasists, nevertheless loved the husband who neglected her. Flaminius had glimpsed a new aspect to her, had seen behind the public façade. He felt pity for the woman he saw baring her soul before him.

But could he really do what she asked? If he uncovered the truth, and rooted out the conspiracy against her husband, he could hardly allow it to remain unknown. He had to make the emperor at least aware of what was happening behind his back.

Or at least some of it. This little episode would have to remain under the rose.

‘I’m so lonely,’ she was sobbing. ‘So lonely and so… frustrated.’

Abruptly she clamped her mouth to his and then they were kissing fiercely, hungrily. He felt a stirring in his groin. He wanted her, this woman twice his age. Her body was pressed against his. It was plumper than the girls he was accustomed to, her skin was rougher, but nonetheless she was filled with warmth and vitality. He slid his fingers into her primly coiffured hair. For a moment, Medea’s much younger features appeared in his mind’s eye.

A noise from the corridor outside made him break away with a guilty start; it cooled his passion like a bucket of water thrown at a dog on heat. Uncomfortably aware that his clothes smelt of her perfume, he tried to rise.

‘What is it?’ she said, peering at him.

‘I thought I heard someone…’ he said. ‘Outside.’

She grabbed the folds of his toga and hauled him back down onto the couch. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘No one will dare to spy on us. I’m the empress of Rome!’

‘That’s just the point,’ Flaminius said, a little worried by her use of the word “spy.” ‘You’re the empress. I’m one of your husband’s guards.’

‘You can hardly think he’s going to burst in upon us,’ she said with a cracked laugh. ‘You’ve seen too many plays!’ He noticed the lines on her face, the crow’s feet that no amount of powder could conceal. ‘He’s off chasing boys in barbarian country, not hiding in the wardrobe.’

‘All the same,’ Flaminius said, ‘if we were discovered together, it would be bad news for both of us.’

‘You think my husband cares about being a cuckold?’ she said bitterly. ‘I would be faithful to him.’ She panted. ‘I love him. I’ll never stop loving him. But I have appetites that I must fulfil.’

Flaminius felt a wet stickiness from his thigh. His wounds had broken out afresh, he realised. He got up and sat back on the stool, rearranging his toga, dabbling worriedly at the fresh blood. ‘I think this conversation needs to return to a professional footing.’

‘Hard to get, are we?’ she said archly. ‘Very well, you tease. I’ll play your game. Let’s have our … professional conversation. As long as we have time for a little recreation afterwards.’

Flaminius couldn’t remember where he’d got to. Like a bad actor in a Plautus comedy, he needed prompting.

‘We were talking about Centurion Messalus’ murder. It wasn’t me who poisoned him. So who did? Who would benefit from his death?’

She looked petulant now. ‘How should I know? I can’t tell you anything about such people. He must have had enemies. You said he did, before. I don’t know who his enemies were but you clearly do. So: who were his enemies? You say he killed people, not just in battle. Who? Surely you must consider his kin as suspects.’

‘He killed a senator called Nigrinus,’ he told her. ‘At the orders of the former Praetorian Prefect. And before he was killed, he…’

‘Well, there’s your answer!’ the empress told him. ‘His killers must surely have been Nigrinus’ family or friends. You should investigate them!’

‘I don’t think they had access to the Villa,’ he said.

‘Perhaps not themselves,’ she said, ‘but an agent. A slave, perhaps, who was suborned by them! Speak with Erichtho. She might be able to shed light on who could have poisoned the centurion. Assuming it wasn’t her, after all… Certainly you ought to see her about those wounds. Hermogenes the imperial physician is away with my husband, you know.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I don’t know how you got them but they’re in danger of dripping on my mosaic. Really, Gaius, you can’t expect me to do your work for you, but I really think I’ve worked out what you should be doing. Now come back to the couch. You can investigate the Nigrini later. Keep a lonely woman company.’

Unwillingly, he rose. ‘Your imperial majesty,’ he said formally. ‘I think…’

She grabbed him by the hand but as she pulled him towards her, the doors opened. The empress glowered at the slave who entered, a small, weaselly looking man.

‘How dare you intrude!’ she cried.

‘My humble apologies, ma’am,’ the slave said, ‘but Prefect Septicius Clarus is outside and wishes to speak to you.’ His eyes widened, seeing how close the two stood. They grew even larger seeing that her hand was on his wrist.

‘I really must get my wounds seen to,’ Flaminius said.

The empress pushed Flaminius away. ‘Very well, you may go,’ she told him. ‘Carry out the investigation with my blessing, and as I have instructed you. Remember to report to me first. I must decide what may be made public.’ Her face was cold, but Flaminius thought he detected alarm in her eyes.

He saluted, glad of a chance to get out of an embarrassing situation. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I shall report to you as soon as there are any developments.’

‘Permit the prefect to enter,’ the empress told the slave.

Flaminius marched over to the doors as the slave opened them again. They revealed Septicius Clarus, his normally jovial face twisted with suspicion.

‘What are you doing here, tribune?’ he demanded.

‘Her imperial majesty was debriefing me,’ Flaminius told him solemnly. ‘I must be going now.’

Before he could enter the corridor, Septicius Clarus seized him and pulled him close. Flaminius gave him a startled look. The prefect sniffed at him, then glowered. ‘I smell perfume on you,’ he growled. ‘It’s the empress’ scent.’

Flaminius started insolently back at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the prefect pushed past him and entered the chamber, slamming the doors behind him.

Flaminius stood where he was for a moment, listening. Noticing the two Praetorians giving him curious, sidelong looks, he began to inspect them.

As he was testing the blade of one man, he overheard a muted conversation between Septicius Clarus and the empress. He couldn’t make out the words, but the prefect sounded angry and hurt, while the empress seemed to be mollifying him. The argument reached a crescendo. Flaminius returned the sword to the man.

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You may sheath it.’

Now there was only silence from the chamber. Flaminius listened for a moment longer, then saluted the two men, spun round, and marched off.

—14—

On his way to the chambers where Erichtho kept her simples and her potions, he encountered Centurion Junius Italicus again, coming round an intersection.

‘Has the prefect briefed you on the manoeuvres tonight?’ the centurion inquired.

Flaminius stared at him. ‘Manoeuvres? No! No he hasn’t. Odd, I’ve just seen him too.’ But Septicius Clarus had been in no mood for briefings. ‘That’s short notice. Where did you hear about this?’

Centurion Junius Italicus fell into step with him. ‘I was speaking to one of the prefect’s aides,’ the centurion said. ‘The entire Guard will be out on manoeuvres, with only a few exceptions.’

‘I don’t know why no one’s told me,’ Flaminius said, ‘unless everyone’s being kept in the dark. A test, maybe? Or is my cohort the exception?’ He indicated his wounds. ‘I’m going to have to get these seen to. Find out for me, centurion, if you can.’

‘Sir!’ Centurion Junius Italicus saluted and stamped off.

Reaching the door to Erichtho’s chambers, Flaminius rapped on it. After a moment, it opened and he was met by a wall of scent, followed by the wizened features of Erichtho herself. She peered quizzically at him through her tangled hair.

‘How may I help you, Tribune Flaminius?’ she asked. ‘Do you require another love philtre?’

‘Very funny,’ said Flaminius bitterly. He showed her his oozing wounds. ‘I got these last night. The camp surgeon bound them for me, but they’ve opened up again. The empress suggested I called in on you, Erichtho, since the imperial physician is away with the emperor.’

‘Of course,’ she said, her manner changing abruptly. ‘Come on in, tribune.’

She led him into a medium sized chamber, with mosaic floor and frescoed walls. On a roughhewn table in the middle lay a variety of herbs, while several green glass phials were staked in a rack. More were kept in racks along the frescoed walls. The scent of perfume in the air made Flaminius sneeze and his eyes run.

She directed him to sit down on a stool and examined the sword cut on his thigh. ‘How did you get this?’ she asked curiously, opening a jar of unguent.

‘In the course of my duties,’ Flaminius said.

She raised her brows in mock surprise. ‘Are the barbarians even now at our gates?’ She dabbed at the wound with a wet cloth, then began to slather on the unguent. ‘I don’t know how else a Praetorian would come by such injuries within the sacred precincts of Rome.’

Flaminius grinned a little. ‘Just robbers, I think,’ he told her. ‘Profane enough to bear arms within the city walls.’ He shifted slightly. The pommel of his concealed sword was digging into his armpit.

‘They chose the wrong man to rob, a Praetorian,’ Erichtho commented. ‘I assume their own wounds are more severe?’

‘Oh yes, you should have seen the one who got away,’ Flaminius said wryly. ‘Although… I had some help.’

‘Some help?’

‘Yes. I don’t know who he was. He ran off before I had a chance to thank him.’

‘Very heroic. Very mysterious.’

Erichtho continued her ministrations, turning to the wound on his arm. ‘Considering everything that has been going on recently, it’s a good thing that the emperor is absent,’ she said. ‘He would not be at all happy. This is what happens when he is gone all the time. Trajan spent too much time fighting the barbarians, but at least he kept people occupied. There’s no interest value in what the emperor’s doing, building fortifications. The Romans like to hear stories of heroism. That’s why you’re so popular.’

‘I’m popular?’ Flaminius said.

She chuckled. ‘Of course you are,’ she said. ‘Why else would the empress want you to carry out the investigation?’

Flaminius was quiet for a while.

‘I was assisted by Centurion Probus at first,’ he reminded her. ‘He told me that you had something to talk to him about, but before he had a chance to discuss it, he was taken off the case. Do you remember what it was?’

She shook her head shortly. ‘I forget,’ he told him.

It looked like she trusted him a lot less than she had trusted Probus. Why, he didn’t know; with the empress it was quite the reverse. ‘Has anyone else asked for your poisons?’ he asked.

‘I have no poisons,’ she told him coldly.

‘What about the cantharadin?’ he asked.

‘It’s only poisonous if used in too large doses. That’s why people should leave these things in the hands of suitably qualified professionals. But I told you, I’m not Locusta. I’m the empress’ perfumer.’

‘But you’re a Marsian,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘Your people know all about poison.’

She frowned. ‘So rumour has it. As you appreciate, I have a degree of familiarity with medicines.’ She had finished her work, re-bandaging the wounds. ‘How does that feel?’ she asked.

Flaminius flexed his arm, then his thigh.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Thanks. You’re a good physician.’

She shook her head. ‘I have some medical knowledge, that’s all. If Hermogenes was here, this would be his job. I’m a perfumer, I tell you. And no poisoner either!’

‘I’m not calling you a poisoner,’ Flaminius told her. ‘But someone killed Centurion Messalus with your cantharadin.’

‘Your cantharadin, you mean,’ Erichtho countered. ‘It was in your possession at the time.’

Flaminius rubbed absently at his bandages. ‘Stop that,’ Erichtho said curtly. ‘I don’t want my work to be ruined.’

He apologised. ‘I know that the cantharadin was in my possession,’ he went on, ‘but we know that I didn’t do it.’

‘So someone must have stolen it from you,’ Erichtho said, exasperatedly. ‘Minerva Medica! Who did the empress appoint as investigator, you or me? I’m not here to do your work, and by the gods you’d better not try to do mine!’

‘Did anyone show any interest in poisons before Messalus’ killing?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Apart from you, you mean?’ Erichtho shook her head. ‘You were the only one asking about them. The empress wanted me to talk to you about them when you first came to the Villa. I remember it well.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You may have persuaded others of your innocence, but fingers of guilt are still pointing at you.’

‘I was found innocent in a court of law,’ Flaminius said severely. ‘Ursus Servianus was the magistrate presiding, and he accepted my innocence. If you continue to voice doubts, you could be tried for contumacy.’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea what that means,’ she said angrily. ‘Your Roman laws are nonsense. I am employed here for my skill in mixing perfumes and potions. The law means nothing to me.’

‘Is that so?’ Flaminius said thoughtfully.

She saw what he was hinting at. ‘That doesn’t mean I would break it,’ she said. ‘I had nothing to do with the centurion’s death.’

‘Were you present at the Villa on the empress’ birthday?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Her birthday?’ she said. ‘I always accompany ma’am, as you well know. If she was present, I was present.’

‘That’s not really what I asked,’ Flaminius said. ‘Were you present here, last year, on the empress’ birthday, when Senator Rufinus Crassus made an attempt on the emperor’s life?’

Her face cleared. ‘Oh, when you were first declared the hero of the hour? Yes, I remember it. That was what you were asking about in the first place, when you first came to the Villa, wasn’t it? If he’d been poisoned? Yes, it’s a possibility. He was a strong, healthy young man, not the sort to die of a sudden distemper.’ She shrugged. ‘But who knows what might have been done to him? I assumed the emperor had had him put to death, or given him the opportunity to make good his infamy by committing suicide. The former, I should think. They certainly put him to the question, and quite right too.’

‘He was murdered in his cell, I’m sure of it,’ Flaminius said. ‘He scratched a message into the wall, I think.’

‘What does it say?’ Erichtho asked, curious.

‘I’m not sure,’ Flaminius said; ‘it seems to be in some kind of cipher. But I might just have the key.’

A look crossed her face. Was it his imagination, or did she look troubled?

‘Well, that’s good,’ she said after a pause. ‘But I still don’t really know what you’re talking about.’

Flaminius rubbed his jaw. ‘It was the empress who suggested I talk to you,’ he said, ‘I mean, in the first place. Because of your expertise with regards to poisons. Why did she suggest you?’

Erichtho shrugged. ‘Everyone knows that the people of my tribe are virtuosos in such matters. Besides, as far as I remember, the empress did not mention poison. She merely suggested that I, as her personal physician, would be able to tell you how Rufinus Crassus came to die.’

‘But you denied being a physician,’ he said. ‘Hermogenes is the official imperial physician, but he’s in Britain with the emperor.’

Erichtho shook her head. ‘I said I know some medicine,’ she said. ‘The empress keeps me for my skill in cosmetics and perfume, but she also turns to me whenever she has ailments. She doesn’t trust a man like Hermogenes to tend to her! I was employed on the basis of my perfumery. I used to have a shop in the Forum, you know. It became quite fashionable at one time. Then the empress had me whisked away into this life. After a while, my responsibility grew… broader.’

‘I got the impression she was quite fond of men,’ Flaminius said.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Erichtho said tiredly. ‘She has her favourites, of course, men as well as women. She likes to surround herself with female servants, and male friends. The Praetorian Prefect and the imperial secretary are her friends, certainly.’

‘Just friends?’ Flaminius said. ‘It’s well known that Hadrian’s inclinations lie in another direction. She must be… frustrated.’

Erichtho looked scandalised. ‘I thought you were commissioned by the empress to investigate Centurion Messalus’ murder,’ she snapped, ‘not spread idle gossip. I will have to report this to ma’am!’

Realising that he had made a mistake, Flaminius changed the subject. ‘Tell me why you suggested that Rufinus Crassus was poisoned.’

‘I merely repeated what others had said,’ Erichtho replied.

‘Spreading idle gossip?’ Flaminius taunted her. ‘But you must have had some reason to suspect it, to repeat it. Besides, which others? Who first suggested that the senator had been poisoned?’

‘If you must know,’ said Erichtho grudgingly, ‘I think it was the imperial secretary who suggested it. I happened to mention that some of my cantharadin had gone missing the following day. He said he had read that in high doses it was poisonous, and suggested that Rufinus Crassus’ sudden distemper was caused by the drug.’

The empress had said something about Suetonius Tranquillus mentioning the Gaulish poisoner Locusta. Surely that inoffensive old scholar was incapable of murder, but he knew a lot about the horrors of the past and he had knowledge that people with murderous inclinations could find useful. Flaminius had assumed that Erichtho was the person a murderer would turn to for advice on poisons. But she seemed genuinely outraged by what Flaminius had had to say. Was it an act?

‘What do you know of the imperial secretary?’ he asked.

‘I know him professionally,’ Erichtho said. ‘And he’s part of the empress’ circle…’

‘What about his insistence on leaving the Villa just before my centurion was murdered?’ Flaminius said. ‘What inspired it?’

‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘I am hardly privy to his thoughts. I’m sure I wouldn’t want to be! I keep myself to myself and do not pry into matters that do not concern me.’

‘He seemed to have had an argument with Septicius Clarus,’ Flaminius persisted. ‘What do you know about their friendship?’

‘Their friendship?’ she repeated. ‘Nothing, except I understand that they have known each other for many years. Septicius Clarus was a friend of a senator called Pliny, I believe, who rose to prominence in Trajan’s day. A mutual friend of theirs was Suetonius Tranquillus, who Pliny favoured. Suetonius Tranquillus, in turn, favoured Septicius Clarus as prefect. They were both part of the empress’ circle, of course; she patronises literary types, and I believe that Septicius Clarus has written verses that are much admired in some circles.’

Flaminius tried to imagine his burly, bluff commanding officer writing poetry. He failed. This was new, but not very helpful. ‘So her favour may also have got him his place in the Guard?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘I think it was Suetonius Tranquillus who spoke up for him.’

‘Would you call the prefect an attractive man?’ he asked suddenly.

Erichtho shook her head, but in exasperation rather than denial. ‘Young man,’ she said, ‘you clearly think that there is nothing in life except… except whoring, to put it frankly. I suppose it’s due to your youth, of course, and moving in military circles as you do…’

‘Is he attractive, though?’ he repeated. ‘To a woman of his own age, I mean.’

She smiled briefly. ‘Maybe he would be attractive to a younger woman!’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I haven’t seen that Greek handmaiden you’re so fond of giving him encouraging looks.’

‘What?’ Flaminius’ mind raced. When he’d first met Medea, she’d been the concubine of Falco, an older, married man. But she’d found him more attractive than that old man. Or had she?

Erichtho laughed cruelly. ‘That worries you, doesn’t it? You have feelings for the girl. After all you had a tryst with her the night of the murder… Stop looking like that, you oaf! I’m only teasing you. I’m sure she doesn’t find a bald, middle aged man like Septicius Clarus more attractive than you.’

He scowled at her.

‘I’ll have to ask you to tell me the truth,’ he said. ‘This is a serious investigation, of murder. Please don’t try to mislead me.’

Erichtho shared with herself a small, secret smile. ‘I think you’re misleading yourself,’ she said, ‘if you think I know anything to help you.’

‘But you know these people,’ he said. ‘You may know something that no one else does.’

‘If you really must know,’ she told him, ‘Septicius Clarus has a kind of inept charm. So does Suetonius Tranquillus, for that matter, when he takes the trouble. I no longer have any interest in men, at my age, but if I were a younger woman, I might encourage the secretary’s advances should he approach me. But he seems to spend most of his time in another world. Although every now and then,’ she added, musingly, ‘he’s a different man. Not the silent, occasionally quite rude scholar, but someone younger at heart. When he’s like that, the handmaidens are in mortal terror of his unwanted advances.’

‘Younger at heart?’ Flaminius found this difficult to imagine. ‘I’ve never seen him like that. He’s been pretty cantankerous when I’ve seen him.’

‘I suppose that means I know him better than you do,’ she conceded. She lifted a hand quickly. ‘Not that I know him well. I don’t know what it is that makes him change like that. Perhaps it means when he’s found himself an even older, even mustier scroll, on an even older, dustier topic.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘But surely,’ he went on, ‘he’s always poring over scrolls. Something that affects him like that would have to be completely different.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then turned to another subject. ‘You say he was the one who first mentioned the poisonous effects of cantharadin. Did you notice anyone paying particular attention to this?’

‘The empress was certainly listening,’ she replied. ‘Or pretending to. She was making a point of being particularly pleasant to him just then. This was shortly before he had that row with Septicius Clarus and demanded to leave the Villa. The empress was flattering him and being attentive.’

‘She wasn’t normally like that?’

Erichtho shook her head. ‘At one time, she was often quite rude to him, but perhaps it was in jest. Banter, if you like. They seemed quite close on the whole.’

This also came as a surprise. Flaminius couldn’t imagine Suetonius Tranquillus being close to anyone. ‘He seems like a woman hater to me,’ he commented.

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right,’ Erichtho said. ‘He has been very brusque with me when he hasn’t taken the trouble to be charming, and he’s hardly charming to the handmaidens, from what I’ve seen. Nevertheless, he depends on the empress for his position. While his friend Pliny was still alive, I suppose he relied on the senator’s patronage, but now Pliny and Trajan are both gone, his standing in the imperial household depends on his place in the empress’ affections.’

‘His place in her affections?’ Flaminius seized on the words. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing!’ she told him. ‘A mere slip of the tongue. I mean, he depends on her favour, as I’ve already indicated.’

Flaminius remembered his recent experience in the empress’ chambers. Obviously, being married to a man who according to most rumours was—forgive him—a pederast, much like most Roman matrons in such a situation, she would seek solace with other men. After all, she had just been all over him. Somehow Flaminius thought that this was no new thing. But Suetonius Tranquillus?

‘Erichtho,’ he said, ‘are you telling me that the imperial secretary was having an affair with the empress?’

‘I’m telling you nothing of the sort,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t believe the empress commissioned you to pry into her own private affairs. You’re supposed to find out who the murderer was. I don’t see how this can be relevant.’

‘Oh, but it could be,’ Flaminius said grimly. ‘It could be. You know what Marcus Cato said: “Every adulteress is as good as a poisoner.” And people who commit adultery are often involved in murder. Just look at the homecoming Clytemnestra prepared for Agamemnon[10]. We have to look at people’s motives. Another quote, this time from the renowned judge Lucius Cassius[11] speaking about crime—“who benefits?”’

‘I’ve never heard of any of those people,’ Erichtho said testily. ‘You forget, I grew up in a mountain tribe. I learnt more about herbs and potions than you lowlanders could dream of, but I didn’t have the benefit of a classical education like you clearly did. Who benefits from poisoning Messalus? It makes no sense. Are you implying the empress is a poisoner?’ She was outraged.

‘Are you admitting that the empress is an adulteress?’

She scowled. ‘I’m admitting nothing of the sort,’ she said, ‘and I strongly suggest this line of inquiry goes no further.’

This seemed to be as close to an admission as he could reasonable hope for. What was more, it tallied with Flaminius’ own recent experience. If the empress was an adulteress, well…!

Well what? It proved nothing. Why would she murder anyone, unless they were going to betray her secret? None of it meant she was involved in the conspiracy against the emperor.

He was tired and confused. He’d had a bad night, what with the fight itself and insomnia brought on by the pain of his wounds. Junius Italicus’ news of mysterious manoeuvres was troubling him, too. Then the empress’ attempt to seduce him had made him doubt her. Really, he had no reason to suspect her of anything more than a few marital misdemeanours. It meant nothing to anyone other than her and her husband, and any passing moralist of the more prurient persuasion.

Erichtho had finished cleaning and dressing his wounds. ‘Do you have any more questions for me? I suggest you get some rest as soon as your duties are over. I’ll say no more about what you have said, on the condition that you are equally quiet about anything I may have unintentionally implied. Is that understood? Nothing you have said makes any sense. You are supposed to be investigating Centurion Messalus’ murder, not snooping into the business of your betters.’

‘Very well,’ Flaminius said humbly. ‘I have finished my questions, unless there is anything else you can add.’

She shook her head. ‘None. Except…’

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps Messalus had enemies. I don’t know, but you should ask your own soldiers. A man in his position makes enemies among the men. Perhaps it was one of them. Or perhaps some other enemy he had made.’

‘He had enemies,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘But in other quarters. Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe that’s where I should be directing my investigations.’

Right at the moment, though, he felt he would be best employed reporting back to Probus.

He found Junius Italicus again and put the cohort in his hands, then marched from the palace and headed for the Castra Peregrina, avoiding the shortcut through the alley. Half an hour later, he was sitting on the far side of the cluttered desk from Probus.

—15—

‘I think I’ve made a discovery,’ he said. Scraps of papyrus still littered the table-top. Probus looked glad to be able to put the work to one side.

‘What is it?’ he said curtly.

‘It turns out that the imperial secretary, Suetonius Tranquillus,’ Flaminius said, ‘is a mine of information. I don’t know if he realises the significance of much of it… anyway, I was reading one of his books, his book on Augustus, in fact, and it mentioned the Caesar cipher.’

‘This code isn’t the Caesar cipher, you young fool,’ Probus told him levelly. ‘I’ve tried decoding it with the Caesar cipher, and the Polybius square, and even tried translating it into the skytale, with no success.’

‘Perhaps you’ve not heard of the Augustus cipher,’ Flaminius said smugly.

‘Augustus cipher?’ Probus barked. ‘What’s this? No, I’ve never heard of it! Are you sure there’s such a cipher? You mean this is something the imperial secretary told you about?’

‘I read it in his book, yes,’ Flaminius replied. He produced the Augustus scroll from where he had secreted it in the folds of his toga, unrolled it on the table, and read aloud from the relevant passage:

Whenever he [Augustus] wrote in cipher, he wrote B for A, C for B, and the rest of the letters on the same principle, using AA for X. [12]

Probus stared at him in silence. Then he banged his fist down on the table, making all the documents and scraps of papyrus jump. ‘So insultingly simple!’ he barked. ‘Simpler than any of the usual permutations of the Caesar cipher. I had dismissed anything so easy out of hand, and gone looking for something more complicated.’ He shook his head. ‘The fools! To use such a basic cipher. And yet… it had me fooled.’

‘We haven’t tried it out yet,’ said Flaminius, ‘but I know that graffiti off by heart. I learnt it while waiting for my trial.’

He grabbed a wax tablet and scribbled the coded message down on it: TFSBQJT DTQRF ZPV DMBSVT.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘if we substitute B for A, C for B, and so on…’

TFSBQJT  D TQRF
s erapis  c urse

ZPV DMBSVT
y ouclarus

He looked up at Probus. ‘Serapis curse you, Clarus.’

‘Clarus?’ said Probus. ‘Septicius Clarus!’

‘But what does it mean?’ Flaminius asked. Probus looked pensive. ‘I’ve got something to tell you about the prefect…’ the tribune added.

‘That can wait.’ Probus sat back in his chair. ‘Let us reconstruct the scene. Rufinus Crassus, having been arrested for the attempted murder of the emperor himself, locked up by the Praetorians, scratches into the wall Serapis curse you, Clarus. He invoked the Egyptian god Serapis to curse, not Hadrian, who he had just tried to kill, but Septicius Clarus, who admittedly had had him arrested and imprisoned, but was only obeying orders. There was nothing personal about it. Now why the prefect? Does it have any connection with the fact that Rufinus Crassus was murdered—or persuaded to commit suicide—while in the prefect’s custody, sometime shortly afterwards?’

‘I can tell you one thing about Septicius Clarus that might give you pause for thought,’ Flaminius said. ‘From all the indications, he’s having an affair…’ he paused dramatically, ‘with the empress.’

‘How do you know this?’ Probus demanded. ‘From all the indications, you say. What indications?’

Flaminius related everything that had happened since their last meeting. Probus’ face remained stonily immobile, but from occasional flashes of his eyes, Flaminius could see the commissary centurion was impressed.

‘It makes sense that she should be unfaithful,’ Probus commented at the end. ‘But with a mere slip of a boy like you?’

Flaminius bristled. ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Surely any woman would want a young fellow like me rather than a passed-it old man like Septicius Clarus!’

‘Septicius Clarus,’ said Probus with dignity, ‘is younger than myself.’ He scowled. ‘So… the senator who attempted to murder the emperor cursed the prefect in his last moments, although we don’t know if he realised that they were his dying moments—well, no. Of course he knew he was going to die. What we don’t know is if he realised he would be murdered while still imprisoned. We now think that the prefect is, and presumably was, carrying out an affair with the empress. Now how do these pieces of the mosaic fit together?’

‘What about the other documents?’ Flaminius said. ‘The wax tablet we discovered in Messalus’ quarters and the notes you found in the prefect’s office. Now we’ve cracked the code, we can read them, too, surely.’

‘Yes,’ said Probus. ‘It will take a while, simply because the text is longer. It’s just a case of a bit of hard work.’

Flaminius rose. ‘I really ought to be getting back to the camp...’

‘Sit down, tribune,’ Probus said firmly. ‘You can help me.’

With a sigh, Flaminius sat.

He took one page of the notes, Probus another. Before they had got very far into the laborious process of translating them, Flaminius dropped his stylus and stared into space.

‘What is it?’ Probus growled.

‘You found some of these in the prefect’s office, while the rest were in Messalus’ room,’ Flaminius said. ‘Rufinus Crassus used this cipher. The prefect and the centurion seem to have used it. You didn’t recognise it, despite being a commissary centurion…’

‘Jupiter’s balls, don’t rub it in, lad,’ Probus complained.

‘…but who do we know who did know it as well? The imperial secretary and historian Suetonius Tranquillus.’

‘You think the secretary is implicated?’

Flaminius grimaced. ‘Maybe he didn’t administer the poison,’ he said. ‘Though he seems to know a bit about poison himself...’ He mentioned what Erichtho had said about the imperial secretary’s knowledge of cantharadin. Probus’ piggy eyes widened a little. ‘But what interests me more is the fact that Rufinus Crassus scratched that message, that curse, in cipher. A cipher that we now know is used by the prefect and was also used by Centurion Messalus.’

‘Seems to be,’ Probus corrected him. ‘That may become clearer when we get our backs into decoding it.’

Flaminius ignored the hint and went on. ‘So Rufinus Crassus knew the cipher, and he wrote that message knowing that Septicius Clarus would be able to read it. They both knew the cipher! A cipher that, as far as we’re aware, was only known otherwise by Suetonius Tranquillus, presumably due to his reading of Augustus’ letters in the archives…’

‘Not wanting to clip the wings of your flight of fancy,’ Probus said, ‘but that’s all it is until we get all this deciphered. So instead of putting it off until the Greek calends, get busy, lad!’

Before he returned to his work, Flaminius added, ‘Did I mention what Junius Italicus told me? These rumours of manoeuvres tonight?’

Probus flung down his stylus. ‘Do tell,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The minutiae of Praetorian manoeuvres never ceases to fascinate me.’

‘Nothing’s been confirmed, officially,’ Flaminius said. ‘I saw Septicius Clarus before, as I said, and he said nothing…’

‘Probably too busy thinking about what he’d do to the empress,’ Probus interrupted.

‘Maybe,’ said Flaminius. ‘But my chief centurion heard that the Guard are going to be called out on manoeuvres tonight.’

‘You said that before,’ Probus said. ‘But what manoeuvres?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘He didn’t know himself. It could just be a rumour. You know how soldiers get in peacetime, they need to have their legs stretched for them or they get restless... Thing is, it’s odd that I’ve not been told. I can understand my cohort being left in the dark, but surely the tribunes need to know. Why haven’t I been told?’ He shook his head. ‘It must just be a rumour, thinking about it. Sorry I mentioned it.’

‘No, this is interesting,’ said Probus. ‘It seems like information is being deliberately kept from you. You’ve already had two attempts on your life. Now this. Someone is out to get you, tribune. I’d suggest you tread carefully.’ He paused. ‘And yet…’

‘Septicius Clarus,’ said Flaminius decisively. ‘It’s Septicius Clarus. Everything’s pointing at him.’ He wondered what the empress would think if he proved that her lover was the murderer of Messalus. ‘Whatever these manoeuvres are, he doesn’t want me involved. What can it be?’

Probus shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine. But you’re right, it must be something important. He’s onto you, onto both of us quite possibly. That would be why he persuaded the empress—his lover—to have me taken off the case. But what is he up to?’

He gazed down at the ciphered text.

‘Have you found anything in the prefect’s notes yet?’ Flaminius asked.

Probus shook his head. ‘Nothing very clear. But these manoeuvres—you must be there to witness them.’

‘The prefect is keeping me out of them, me and my cohort,’ Flaminius reminded him.

‘So you must infiltrate it,’ Probus said. ‘You’ve already infiltrated the Guard.’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius, ‘with your help. I can’t see how I could infiltrate it a second time. They know me.’

‘It will be night,’ said Probus. ‘Go to the camp and monitor the situation. When the manoeuvres begin, disguise yourself as a rank and file Praetorian and join one of the cohorts.’

‘And then what?’ Flaminius asked.

Probus shrugged. ‘Keep your eyes open, and don’t get caught. If we can find out what’s being planned it will be of immense value.’ He returned his attention to the ciphered notes.

Flaminius read the gibberish on the wax tablet from Messalus’ quarters. He repeated what he had done previously to decipher the graffiti.

Uif xbhft usbjo mfbwft Qpsuvt, Jeft pg Bqsjm bu ebxo.

Xf buubdl ju bu oppo po uif Qpsuvt Spbe

Flaminius dropped the wax tablet in shock.

‘Jupiter’s balls! What is it?’ Probus barked.

‘The wages train leaves Portus, Ides of April at noon,’ Flaminius read out slowly. ‘We attack it at midnight on the Portus Way.’ He looked up at Probus. ‘What can in the name of all the gods can it mean?’

—16—

‘The ides of April[13],’ said Probus. ‘That’s only two days away. The wages train…’ His face cleared. ‘Of course!’

‘What is it?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What wages train?’

‘Your wages, tribune,’ Probus said. ‘The wages for the Praetorians. You lot get paid extortionately even in peacetime, even when there hasn’t been a change of emperor.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Flaminius asked.

‘It’s customary for new emperors to pay the Guard a substantial bonus,’ Probus explained, ‘to keep them sweet. When the Emperor Galba seized power after Nero’s death, he found the treasury empty, so he couldn’t pay the Guard the promised bonus. That’s why he only lasted a few months. Every emperor needs the Guard on his side. Ask your friend Suetonius Tranquillus.’

‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ Flaminius said drily. ‘But what’s this got to do with a wages train?’

‘The Guard is paid quarterly in Spanish silver,’ Probus said, ‘like the legions. The silver is mined and minted in Spain, and transported by boat to Portus Trajanorum[14], then brought up the Portus Way in wagons to the Praetorian Camp, where it’s finally paid to the Guards.’ He scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘It looks like someone is plotting to rob it.’

‘But we found this in Messalus’ quarters,’ Flaminius said. ‘Why would the Praetorians want to rob their own wages train? It make no sense!’

‘It certainly doesn’t, on the face of it,’ Probus said irritably. ‘But it has to be stopped. Even that old fool Cassius Nero will sit up and take notice if there’s a chance the Praetorian wages train is going to be robbed.’

‘None of this makes sense,’ said Flaminius. ‘What does this have to do with Rufinus Crassus’ message to Septicius Clarus? Serapis curse you, Clarus. What does that mean?’

‘The senator,’ Probus said heavily, ‘spent too long out East and took up with one of their filthy cults. These senators are all the same.’

‘But why would he curse Clarus in cipher?’ Flaminius said. ‘Only one conclusion: they both communicated in the same cipher: therefore, they were in collusion. To assassinate the emperor! And yet it was Rufinus Crassus who was assassinated, presumably by Messalus, who was also involved in a plot to rob his own wages train. I don’t see how the two link up.’

‘Do they have to?’ Probus said. ‘On the surface, they don’t. Maybe somewhere beneath it, the two currents become one stream.’ His imagery wasn’t improving. Flaminius should point him in the direction of a halfway decent rhetoric teacher. ‘Nevertheless, what matters most is that the wages train gets through. The Praetorians could mutiny if they don’t get paid.’

‘I know I will,’ Flaminius said. He paused. ‘Maybe that’s the idea,’ he suggested. ‘Someone wants to provoke a revolt. For… some reason. But what about these mysterious manoeuvres tonight?’

Probus brooded. ‘You say the prefect hasn’t mentioned them to you? I’d like to know what happens all the same. Well, as I said, you need to make sure you’re involved. In disguise if need be.’ He scratched his chin. ‘If Septicius Clarus is responsible for the murder of Rufinus Crassus and Messalus, he knows that you are investigating it. He will not want you involved in anything he’s planning. So he’ll try to freeze you out.’

‘You think these manoeuvres are connected with the murder? But how?’

‘That’s something I couldn’t say without further intelligence,’ Probus said. ‘What with one thing and another, I’ll have to rely on you for said intelligence, even though it’s something you sadly lack.’

‘Very funny,’ said Flaminius. ‘You should write for the stage.’ He rose. ‘Alright, I’d better get going. I’ll return to the camp and see what I can find out. Then, by hook or by crook, I’ll join these manoeuvres and see what I can see. If I don’t get found out, I’ll come back tomorrow and give you a full report.’

Probus rose too, and saluted him solemnly.

‘For those about to die…’ Flaminius said under his breath, and he marched out like a gladiator stepping out onto the sands of the arena.

Foursquare and indomitable, the Praetorian Camp loomed above the shanties and slums that had grown up beyond the crumbling old walls of Rome. Loopholes in its castellated walls stared down at the teeming city in defiance, just as a marching camp amidst the heather of Caledonia might defy the encircling hills.

Two guards greeted Flaminius as he approached. Since the camp was outside the walls of Rome, while he wore a toga, they were resplendent in breastplates, their oval shields were bright with colour, their burnished helmets gleamed in the evening sun, their crests jutted skywards like the crests of proud cockerels. Respectfully they asked him for the password.

‘Mesopotamia,’ he said, repeating what he had been told that morning.

The two guards exchanged glances. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the first one. ‘Have you not been given the new password?’

Flaminius started and looked suspiciously at the two guards. How could there be a new password? It was changed daily. The old one would still apply.

‘New password?’ he said, playing for time. ‘Are you out of your mind, soldier? The word of the day is Mesopotamia.’

The two Praetorians shook their heads.

‘It’s been changed, sir,’ the other guard said. ‘Prefect’s orders. Weren’t you notified?’

‘I’ve been on duty at the palace,’ Flaminius said. ‘The prefect was there. He said nothing about new passwords.’ He felt cold, and it wasn’t just the evening chill. What was going on?

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the first Praetorian, a tall young fellow with a lantern jaw, ‘but you can’t come in without giving the correct password.’

‘This is absurd,’ said Flaminius. ‘You know who I am, I’m Tribune Flaminius of the ninth cohort. Let me pass.’

He tried to walk between them. They crossed their spears in an X, blocking his path. He eyeballed the second Praetorian, a shorter, older man with sloe eyes and thick lips.

‘Get out of my way, soldier,’ he blustered, ‘or I’ll have the centurion of the watch flog you.’

‘Come on, now, sir,’ said the first Praetorian. ‘You know the rules. We’d be flogged all the more for letting you in without giving the password.’

Flaminius gritted his teeth.

‘Get me the centurion of the watch,’ he ordered.

The centurion was called and in a short while he joined them.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Can’t let you in unless you give the password, sir.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘More than my job’s worth to let you in. You should have received the password from the prefect while you were on duty. Sir.’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Flaminius, frustrated. ‘Let me pass, I tell you!’ When the centurion shook his head stolidly, he sighed. ‘Get me your tribune!’

The tribune was called, and in a short while he joined them. It was Aulus Fabricius Cotta.

‘Tribune Flaminius,’ he drawled. ‘My centurion says you refuse to give the password. What’s got into you? You should know that even heroes of your magnitude can’t get into camp without giving the password.’

‘I’ve given the password I was given this morning,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Will you call last act on this little comedy and let me in? We’ve got manoeuvres tonight, didn’t you know that?’

‘I know all about them,’ the tribune crowed. ‘Yes, you’re right. You ought to go to your cohort at once and prepare them, or you’ll be in trouble with the prefect.’ But he didn’t move, and nor did his men.

‘Let me in, then,’ said Flaminius patiently.

Fabricius Cotta shook his head, giving a thin lipped smile. ‘Can’t be done until you give me the password, old man.’

‘Oh, get out of my way, you chinless fool,’ said Flaminius, a lot less patiently. Shoving Fabricius Cotta to one side, he strode through the gate.

He didn’t get far. After a yard or so, the two Praetorians seized him by the arms. He tried to shrug them off. The centurion came up in front of him. ‘Sorry about this, sir,’ he said, and punched Flaminius in the solar plexus.

As the tribune sank winded to the gravel, it came to him that he was doing a poor job of spying. He was supposed to be surreptitious. If this wasn’t drawing attention to himself, he didn’t know what was.

The two Praetorians hauled him to his feet. ‘Take him to his own barracks block,’ Fabricius Cotta called, ‘and tell his men to keep him under close confinement. Impress upon them that anyone defying these orders will suffer the ultimate penalty.’

‘Sir!’ The centurion saluted and led the two Praetorians, Flaminius hanging limply between them, away into the camp.

His sandaled heels dragged in the gravel as he stared up into the evening skies, feeling weak and in pain. How was he going to get out of this one? It seemed impossible. Even the fact he was being imprisoned by his own men wouldn’t help. They’d done nothing to help him last time; ha! they weren’t that ill-disciplined. What would they think if he was confined a second time?

And what would Probus think? If Flaminius knew him, the ruthless commissary centurion would wash his hands of him and find another aide-de-camp.

Flaminius’ barracks block was on the far side of the camp. When they reached it, Junius Italicus was sent for, and a moment later the chief centurion appeared at the entrance to the block.

His face was blank, emotionless. Without questioning Flaminius’ guards, he showed them through to a room at the back. A guard on duty unlocked the door. Flaminius was ushered into the small, cold, gloomy room and the door slammed to behind him.

He stood there, rubbing at his sore chest, listening to the scrape of the key in the lock. Once again, he was a prisoner. He sat down on a bench and tried to get his breath back. That centurion packed a powerful punch.

He debated his next action. No way was he going to be able to spy on these manoeuvres now. With luck, he’d be able to get out of this with Probus’ help.

He wondered why he was in this situation anyway. Why had the password been changed without his knowledge? Alright, he shouldn’t have tried to force his way in. That had been stupidity born of desperation. But the prefect had changed the password. It was unheard of. And everyone seemed to know about it except him.

Just as everyone had known about the manoeuvres—except him.

Cold sweat broke out on his brow. Septicius Clarus was persecuting him. He must have paid those men to attack him. He was obviously behind the business in the amphitheatre.

Flaminius would have to get out of here, and he would have to find out what these manoeuvres were all about. But how in Hades was he going to do that?

After a short rest, he started feeling a bit better. He went over to the door and rapped on it testily.

‘Gaoler?’ he cried. ‘Gaoler! Come at once!’

He heard footsteps from the corridor outside. They stopped at his door. ‘You’ll be fed when it’s time, sir,’ came the voice of the gaoler.

‘I don’t want food!’ Flaminius barked. ‘Get me my First Spear. Get me Junius Italicus.’

‘The centurion’s preparing the men for the manoeuvres tonight,’ the gaoler told him. ‘He’s busy.’

‘Gaoler,’ said Flaminius. ‘You know this is a mistake. I’m your commanding officer. You’d better cooperate with me or as soon as I’m out of here, I’ll make sure you regret it, understand?’ But all he heard were the gaoler’s receding footsteps.

He sat back down on the bench. This was all Septicius Clarus’ doing. Whatever these manoeuvres were, they were being kept from Flaminius. The prefect had manipulated events so that he would be unable to report on them. He wished he knew what Septicius Clarus knew about him. Did he suspect? Or had someone betrayed him? Flaminius thought about Junius Italicus. He didn’t trust the man. There was more going on beneath that beefy exterior than he let on. But he represented Flaminius’ only chance in this situation…

He heard the return of the gaoler’s footsteps, followed by a weighty, confident tread. The gaoler stopped outside the door. The key scraped in the lock. The door swung open, letting in light from the passage. Standing in the doorway was the gaoler. Behind him was Junius Italicus.

‘You wanted to speak to me, sir?’ The centurion’s face was immobile as he gazed down at his superior officer.

Flaminius rose and approached the doorway. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay back, sir,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘You’re our prisoner now.’

Flaminius’ shoulders slumped. He sat back down heavily. ‘I’ll admit that I’m impressed by how keen you are to obey orders,’ he said. ‘But you must realise that this is a mistake. Do you know why I’ve been imprisoned?’

Junius Italicus nodded. ‘Attempting to gain entrance to the camp without giving the correct password, attacking fellow Praetorians...’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look good, sir. Luckily for you the prefect is busy at the moment, the whole Guard is.’

‘With these manoeuvres you told me about?’ Flaminius asked. ‘You know better than anyone that I hadn’t been told about them. And why? Someone’s working against me, that’s why! They made sure I didn’t get the new password. They made sure I didn’t know about the manoeuvres. I’m being frozen out.’

‘Why would anyone do that, sir?’ Centurion Junius Italicus asked.

Flaminius glanced down at the floor. ‘I can’t say,’ he admitted. He looked up and met Junius Italicus’ eyes, but they gave nothing away.

‘These are serious allegations, sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus. ‘Surely you’re not going to make them without evidence.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I can say no more.’

‘Then, sir,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘there’s nothing I can do. Forgive me, I have work to do. Farewell.’

The gaoler closed the door quietly behind the centurion as he departed and Flaminius was left in the gloom of the room.

He sat motionless on the bench. The distant sound of orders and the clatter of weapons and armour drifted on the night air outside. The sound of marching feet receded into the distance. Had the manoeuvres begun? It looked like he wouldn’t be joining them.

He rose to his feet and began to pace up and down the little room. He was a prisoner again. Now he had nothing to do but wait. Septicius Clarus had framed him, had tried to kill him more than once already, and now Flaminius was at his power. The Praetorian Prefect had the power of life and death over his men, although it was rare that he exercised it off the battlefield. In this case, he was sure to have Flaminius executed as soon as possible. Flaminius knew too much.

And yet he knew nothing at all. He went over what little he had learnt. Some kind of conspiracy connected with Rufinus Crassus, clearly. They all knew the Augustus cipher that Flaminius had learnt from Suetonius Tranquillus’ manuscript. But he didn’t know what they were plotting. Except that it involved an attack on the Praetorian wages train. He couldn’t work out what that would achieve. And then there were these mysterious manoeuvres. What could their purpose be?

Angrily, he gave the door a kick. To his surprise, it swung open, revealing an empty corridor.

Astounded, he stared down the deserted passageway. Even the gaoler seemed to have gone on manoeuvres. Why had the door been left open? Carelessness? Not in Flaminius’ cohort, please! Then… it was some kind of trap. Septicius Clarus wanted to avoid the embarrassment of another trial, and he had decided to have Flaminius killed while attempting to escape. That could be it. But where was everyone? The barracks seemed to be deserted.

Distantly, he heard paradeground shouts and the tramp of sandaled feet.

That decided him. He had an opportunity here, and it would be foolish to throw it aside. He stepped outside into the corridor and marched down to the sleeping quarters.

All deserted, all empty. He looked in one bunkroom and saw nothing left to show it had been inhabited except for chests on the floor and a couple of dice on a low table. On a stand nearby was a spare set of armour, breastplate and a crested helmet. An oval shield lay against the wall and beside it was a spear. He wondered who had left it behind, then remembered that one of his men had been in the hospital block with food poisoning for the last week.

He was wasting time. Hurriedly he slipped off his heavy woollen toga and strapped on the breastplate. It was difficult without any help, and he had made a couple of mistakes with the straps while he heard the marching sound receding. It sounded like they were heading towards the main gates.

Finally he strapped on the breastplate. He grabbed the helmet and donned it in a hurry, not bothering to lace up the chinstrap, grabbed the spear and shield, then crept from the barracks block, to all intents and purposes a rank and file Praetorian guard.

Creeping in armour proved difficult, and on second consideration not a good idea. He marched smartly down the neatly raked gravel path between the barracks blocks, spear at the slope, until he came out into the Praetorian Way[15].

It was filled with marching guards heading north towards the headquarters building, then west along the Principal Way. He waited in the shadows of the barracks block until he saw that the last of the cohorts marching past. At this, he marched out and tagged on at the end of the line.

‘Keep up there!’ a centurion barked urgently. He marched behind the other Praetorians. All had their eyes fixed firmly forwards, and none seemed to notice the interloper.

They filed out of the gates and came into the open space of ground between the camp and the suburban slums. Praetorians stood at intervals holding torches high. On either side of the parade ground, troops of Imperial Horse Guards sat their horses. They must have ridden here from their own barracks near the Castra Peregrina.

Two men stood at the front on a rostrum. Flaminius knew one of the distant figures had to be Septicius Clarus since he wore the uniform of a Praetorian Prefect. At his side stood a whitehaired man in a toga that had the broad purple stripe of a senator. Standing right at the back, Flaminius was too far away to make him out in detail.

At this distance he couldn’t even be sure if the prefect was Septicius Clarus, but who else could it be? His colleague Marcius Turbo was in Britain with the emperor. The senator remained a mystery. Who was he and why was he here?

Flaminius wished he could break rank and go up to find out who it was, but that would achieve nothing except his recapture and imprisonment a second time. And this time he was sure no one would be so negligent as to leave the door unlocked.

The Praetorian Prefect removed his helmet and addressed the assembled soldiers in loud, declamatory tones. Although he was still too far away for Flaminius to make out his face, his voice was recognisable as that of Septicius Clarus. After a rousing if generic speech about courage, strength and honour, he told them:

‘We will be marching down the Viminal Way.’ ‘Remember that this is only a drill. On reaching the Forum you will be given orders by your individual tribunes. The ninth cohort, whose tribune is currently unavailable, will be taking orders from its chief centurion.’

Flaminius squirmed a little. He looked to see whose cohort he had surreptitiously joined and groaned inwardly. As fate would have it, the tribune was Aulus Fabricius Cotta himself.

‘Our main object is to provide protection and an escort for the senator accompanying us,’ the prefect continued, ‘who will take the place of the emperor in this exercise.’ He saluted them, and added simply, ‘Praetorians and Horse Guards; forwards!’

Cohort by cohort, troop by troop, they marched or trotted from the paradeground.

Flaminius marched at the back, wishing he had taken the time to tie his chin strap since it was flapping round beneath his chin. Having never served as a common legionary, he was unused to carrying a spear, and the shield was heavy.

They marched down the shadow-hung Viminal Way, passing the suburbs before entering the city proper through an open gate in the walls. He wondered how much he would learn from all this.

It seemed to be nothing more than an exercise. The senator, whoever he was, was there to take the place of the emperor, currently in Britain. But Flaminius didn’t know the point of the exercise. Would everything become clear when they reached the Roman Forum? It would take a bit of a march to get there, and he was beginning to regret his hasty actions. He risked being found out, being imprisoned again. But there must be a reason why Septicius Clarus had gone to such lengths to ensure he wasn’t present at a simple if apparently rather pointless military exercise like this. There must be more to it than met the eye.

Their road took them down the side of the Viminal Hill, one of the famous Seven Hills of Rome. In Romulus’ day it had been a wooded prominence rising above the marshes of the Tiber, but now it was jam packed with buildings. Finally they came down into the valley between the Viminal and the Esquiline, entering the Subura, the famous slum district of the city.

It must be long past midnight. The bars and brothels and eating houses that lined the streets were empty of the revellers Flaminius remembered from convivial evenings spent there. Now the blind, crumbling walls of the slums echoed back the monotonous tramp… tramp… tramp of Praetorian feet, and the clip clop counterpoint of Horse Guard steeds.

Now they marched across the valley bottom with the hills of Rome on every side. Up ahead the Palatine was black against the skyline. Temples and tenements, basilicas and colonnades opened out until they were at the edge of the Roman Forum, with the new column raised in honour of Trajan towering against the few stars visible in a cloudy sky.

They halted, and the tribunes gave orders to their cohorts. Fabricius Cotta turned to his own men.

‘We will be surrounding the Senate House,’ he lisped. ‘It’s our duty to insure that it is safe from attack while the … emperor… approaches. The centurions will direct you.’

‘Come on, you pigs,’ Cotta’s chief centurion barked. ‘Forward!’

As the other cohorts fanned out across the Roman Forum, Fabricius Cotta’s men marched past the Julian Basilica. It was silent and shadowy, eerie to Flaminius’ mind, since he was used to it bustling with shoppers and magistrates’ clerks. Here stood the law courts and offices and dozens of shops. It was also home to the moneylenders, and there was one shop Flaminius had attended several times while suffering from financial problems…

On the far side, the Forum opened out at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Near the Gemonian Steps stood a small house with a peaked roof and a large pair of double doors beneath three large windows, at an angle to the main Roman Forum. Moonlight fell upon its roof. Flaminius felt his mouth go dry at the spectral sight. This was the Curia, the meeting house of the Senate of Rome.

His cohort approached it at the double, and formed an avenue of steel, two lines flanking the approach to the doors, spears at the slope, shields raised.

The tramping of sandaled feet echoed from the great moonlit buildings all around them. Another Praetorian cohort quickstepped up the Sacred Way past the equestrian statue of Domitian from the direction of the Temple of Venus and Rome. Another marched down the Gemonian Steps. A troop of Horse Guards trotted out from behind the House of the Vestals. And as several more cohorts and troops entered the Roman Forum, Septicius Clarus and his toga-clad companion appeared from behind the Julian Basilica. More guards marched beside them.

‘Attention!’ bawled Fabricius Cotta’s chief centurion. ‘Present arms!’

Flaminius and his comrades snapped to attention. Septicius Clarus and his senatorial companion came forward to inspect them, accompanied by officers, including Fabricius Cotta.

As the prefect and his companions moved down the line, Flaminius squinted to his left, desperately trying to identify the senator. The moon was setting by now, and the Roman Forum lay in darkness. Only meagre starlight glinted from the accoutrements of the hundreds of men gathered amongst the temples and basilicas.

The chief centurion preceded the officers, glaring at each man as he went. Flaminius hoped that the darkness would also conceal the fact that he was an imposter. The prefect and the senator drew closer. Before they reached him, the chief centurion halted.

‘Eyes front! Your chinstrap’s undone,’ he hissed. With a shock, Flaminius realised he was addressing him. ‘You’re on a charge, lad! Report to me after the end of manoeuvres!’

Flaminius stared forwards and made an involuntary move to drop his spear and tie his chinstrap. The centurion’s face darkened. ‘Not now!’ he hissed. ‘Keep your hand on your spear!’

The prefect and the senator drew closer. Flaminius began to sweat again although the spring night was chill. Septicius Clarus was speaking jovially to several of the Praetorians. Flaminius hoped the prefect wouldn’t speak to him. Surely the man would recognise him even in this darkness. His blood surged in his ears, pounded like waves.

At last they had reached him. Septicius Clarus inspected him, glaring disapprovingly at the untied chinstrap. ‘Smarten up there, soldier,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in the Praetorians now. Fabricius Cotta, what’s the meaning of this?’

‘Sir,’ said the chief centurion, before the tribune could reply, ‘I’ve already reprimanded the soldier. He’ll regret his slovenliness, may I assure you.’

Afraid to move, Flaminius stared straight ahead and said nothing.

‘In my day, soldiers were better disciplined,’ came an elderly voice. It was the senator. Where’d Flaminius heard that voice before? ‘When I was governor of Pannonia, we’d have had such a slovenly soldier flogged by his men for such behaviour.’

‘Naturally, things will be a lot better on the day,’ Septicius Clarus murmured as they moved on. ‘Bear in mind that this is an exercise, a dry run.’

The group moved on, coming at last to the Senate House doors. Here the senator and the prefect mounted the steps, halted, and stood for a moment in silence. Flaminius heard Septicius Clarus say, ‘Of course, on the day the doors would be opened, but we can’t arrange that just now.’

‘Very well,’ came that naggingly familiar voice. ‘Then this is the end of the exercise.’

Septicius Clarus gave orders for the Praetorians to disperse, returning to the Praetorian camp in their individual cohorts. Fabricius Cotta’s chief centurion turned to the men of his cohort.

‘Back the way we came, at the double,’ he barked. ‘Come on, you pigs.’ As Flaminius marched past, the centurion growled, ‘I’ll see you when we get back to camp, soldier.’

This was where it got really difficult. Not only had that eagle eyed chief centurion recognised him in the dark—as the negligent Praetorian with the untied chinstrap, at least—when he got back to barracks, his cover would be doubly blown. He would be recognised for the imposter he was, and also it would be realised that he was an escaped prisoner. The auspices did not bode well. Even the glibbest of augurs could not make them look good.

The buildings on either side of the street echoed back the tramp of the guards’ feet. Starlight filtered down through clouds. Cohort after cohort marched towards the Praetorian camp and their bunks. Fabricius Cotta supressed a yawn. No doubt if a man from the rank and file had yawned, he’d have been put on a charge immediately.

They reached the top of the hill. Ahead stood the tumbledown Servian Walls. Now they were only a short way from the walls of the camp, where Flaminius would pay the price for this night’s escapade. Unless he could find some way to escape.

He managed to fall back, right to the rear of the column. The cohort marched out into the Praetorian parade ground. An alleyway opened up on his right, like a hungry mouth. He lagged behind a little more.

Then he dashed to the side of the road, dropped his spear and shield beside a pillar, yanked off the offending helmet, and hurried into the stinking blackness.

The alleyway swallowed him up.

—17—

Rome, Praetorian Barracks, 12th April 122 AD

Flaminius lay back on the hard bench, the sweat from his recent exertions drying on his body. The barracks block rang with the noise of Praetorians returning after the manoeuvres. He had got back just in time, slamming the door behind him with only seconds to spare.

He panted, trying to get his breath back. It would only be a short time, he knew, before he was taken out and tried for assaulting a fellow officer.

As it happened, it took long enough for Flaminius to fall asleep, even on that cold, hard bench. He awoke an indeterminate time later, his mouth like a desert, the sweat having dried to a crust. He stank like a slave, like a barbarian.

The door was still closed. What had woken him? He heard footsteps in the passage, followed by voices, and then the door creaked open.

Junius Italicus entered. Flaminius looked up at him. The centurion looked at him curiously. ‘This door was unlocked,’ he said. ‘I was expecting you to have gone.’

‘And add desertion to my list of crimes?’ said Flaminius tiredly. ‘Get out of here, unless you bring news of my release. And lock that door behind you.’

‘Sir,’ said Junius Italicus, and departed. Flaminius heard the key in the lock again.

‘And bring me some breakfast!’ he shouted. He heard the centurion’s footsteps receding, but nothing more.

He really was hungry. The night’s exertions had taken it out of him, and the sleep he’d had hadn’t been as restful as it could have. He rolled over and tried to get comfortable.

The gaoler called shortly after, and brought him a bowl of gruel which was bland and tasteless but satisfying.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Flaminius asked.

The gaoler had shadows under his eyes. ‘That’s for the prefect to decide,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll concern himself with you for a while. He had a busy night of it. We all did.’

Flaminius spent the rest of the day staring up at the ceiling, trying to puzzle out what had happened. Septicius Clarus, midnight manoeuvres, the Senate House. How did all this link with the poisoning of Messalus? the murder of Rufinus Crassus? the attempted assassination of the emperor? A dry run, the prefect had called it. A dry run for what?

The door opened again and Junius Italicus entered, flanked by Praetorians.

‘The prefect wants to speak with you,’ he said, ‘in his office. Come with us.’

Flaminius rose and stretched. ‘Very well,’ he said, sounding indifferent, even bored, but his thighs were quaking.

It was time he faced up to his destiny. A shame he couldn’t get a message to Probus beforehand.

He had a feeling that the prefect would use this as an opportunity to get rid of him. After all, there’d been several attempts on Flaminius’ life already. What now? Perhaps he would be executed on trumped up charges. Or would he merely be seconded to a legion on some perilous frontier? Back to Britain, maybe.

Arms fettered, he was marched from the barracks block by his own men, out into the bright sunlight of afternoon. They marched up the almost deserted Praetorian Way to the headquarters building, where he was led to the prefect’s office.

‘Prisoner and escort, reporting to the prefect,’ Junius Italicus barked to the two guards outside the office doors. With smart salutes they ushered the centurion and his prisoner inside.

Septicius Clarus was leafing through a sheaf of reports as Flaminius was hustled into the room. He flung them down with a clatter and rose, marching from behind the desk with his hand extended.

‘Why is this man chained?’ he said in outrage, glaring at the centurion.

‘But sir....’ Junius Italicus began.

Septicius Clarus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Tribune Flaminius has been given the task of investigating your predecessor’s murder, centurion! Set him free at once, and get out!’

As Flaminius’ hands were unfettered, the prefect waved to a chair. ‘Sit, sit!’ He clicked his fingers at a clerk. ‘Wine for my guest!’

Slowly, carefully, Flaminius sat down. Was this some kind of trick? The bewildered Junius Italicus marched his men back outside. Flaminius accepted a beaker of wine from the clerk but didn’t dare drink from it.

Septicius Clarus beamed at him jovially.

‘Little misunderstanding,’ he said, ‘understandable reaction…Have to apologise to Fabricius Cotta, of course…I’ve reinstated you at the empress’ express wish. Glad to have you with us in the Guard.’

Flaminius sat up.

‘The empress?’ he said.

The prefect nodded. ‘When she heard why you wouldn’t be on duty,’ he said, ‘she wanted to know why. I explained what had happened. She told me that “boys would be boys” and that I should have you released at once.’ He twinkled. ‘You’re a lucky fellow,’ he added, ‘having the favour of the empress.’

Despite the twinkle, Flaminius thought there was something cold lurking in those eyes.

‘I’m back on duty?’ he asked, staring warily at the beaker.

‘For the moment,’ the prefect said, ‘your place on the roster has in fact been taken by Fabricius Cotta and men of his cohort. But this is only a temporary measure, and you will be returning to palace duties in the near future. For the present, however, I suggest you relax. And perhaps…’ he coughed, ‘spend some time in the bathhouse.’

Flaminius rose. He shook the prefect’s hand vigorously.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your advice.’

‘Your wine…!’ the prefect protested. But Flaminius had already left the office.

In the camp bathhouse he had a long soak and considered his next move. The empress had rescued him. She really wanted him to find out who had killed Messalus. He doubted that it was for the best of reasons, but at least it had saved his hide for the moment. He’d need to win back the respect of his men; he’d visit them later and impress upon them the fact that he had received an imperial pardon and been exonerated. But he who excuses himself accuses himself, as some clever fellow or other once said. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing and act as if the whole sorry episode had not happened.

At least he wasn’t commanding a cohort in the field. Regaining the trust of an active command would be important, not to say impossible. At least he was only in charge of a spit and polish gang of Praetorians, not real soldiers.

His ablutions completed, he dressed and departed the bathhouse. After all, he was an imperial agent first and foremost. Being a Praetorian tribune was nothing more than a cover. And since the empress was actively supporting him in his investigations, he could move more freely. He’d leave confronting his men for the time being and go and report to Probus. He had a lot to tell him.

In the Castra Peregrina, Probus listened intently.

‘Not only was Septicius Clarus involved in these manoeuvres, but a senator, too? Pity you didn’t recognise him. Well, well…’

‘You don’t seem too surprised,’ Flaminius commented. ‘He was there to take the place of the emperor in the exercise.’

Probus shook his head. ‘Take the place of the emperor,’ he said. ‘The gall!’

Flaminius frowned. ‘I don’t trust Septicius Clarus anymore. He offered me wine. I avoided drinking it.’

‘Very wise,’ Probus said. ‘The prefect doesn’t like you. Speaking of wine…’ He poured them both beakers.

Flaminius’ instinct was to swap them the moment his colleague’s back was turned, but he suppressed it. He had to trust someone, and surely the stolid Probus hadn’t been suborned.

‘Thanks,’ he said, raising it to his lips.

‘The manoeuvres involved the Guard taking an imperial candidate to the Senate House,’ Probus went on. ‘That sounds like treason. A variant on the plot we encountered in Britain.’

‘You mean some senator is taking Falco’s place?’

Probus looked grim. ‘I think some senator always intended to do that,’ he said. ‘I think some senator’s been in this plot up to his neck from day one. We’re still no closer to learning who poisoned Messalus, but that’s immaterial. If the Praetorian prefect is planning to assist some senator on his road to power, what have they got planned for Hadrian?’

‘The emperor’s still in Britain, isn’t he?’ Flaminius asked.

Probus shook his head. ‘Ha! There’s one advantage of the work I’ve been asked to do since Cassius Nero took me off the case,’ he said, ‘I read all the reports from that corner of the empire. Hadrian has left his building work to the legions, who are still walling off lowland Britain from the areas controlled by the Caledonians, and he’s now in Spain, with North Africa next on the itinerary….’

‘Do you think they mean to seize power while he’s on this provincial odyssey?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Perhaps we should tell the empress. But I’ve heard only good spoken of the emperor by the Praetorians. They don’t sound like they’re ready for a coup.’

‘One thing has always been able to change the Praetorians’ minds for them, when it comes to their avowed loyalty to the emperor,’ Probus said, and he rubbed together the fingers of his right hand. ‘Filthy lucre.’

‘Money?’ Flaminius’ eyes widened. ‘The raid on the wages train!’

Probus nodded savagely. ‘Exactly that. Every time the Praetorian Guard has supported a new emperor, they have done so because they were promised a donative of any amount of gold. The emperor Galba failed to deliver, so they deposed him; looks like the plotters want to avoid this. If they can shower the Praetorians with gold straightaway, it will strengthen their position. That must be what they’re planning with this raid.’

‘But how can they pay the Praetorians in future,’ Flaminius said, ‘if the wages have all be paid in advance, as a donative?’

Probus shrugged. ‘No doubt the conspirators mean to raise the cash elsewhere. Provincial taxes are unpopular but easily enforced.’

‘We need to do something about this,’ Flaminius said decisively. ‘But what can we do? As far as the Chief is concerned, you’re off the case. I’m officially investigating for the empress, but…’

‘I’ve already spoke to the old fool,’ Probus said. ‘He’s agreed to gather together a force of commissary agents and we’re going to patrol the Portus Way on the Ides of April, keeping an eye on the wages train.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius doubtfully.

‘What is it?’ Probus asked.

‘If we go down in force,’ Flaminius said, ‘won’t that just frighten them off, whoever it is?’

Probus shrugged. ‘What if it does? As long as the raid is stopped…’

‘They’ll only try again at a later date,’ Flaminius said. ‘We should use this as an opportunity to lure the conspirators out into the open. Right now we don’t have a lot of evidence, just things we’ve picked up here and there. The main suspect has been murdered. Septicius Clarus seems to be in it up to his neck, but where’s the evidence? Accuse powerful men like him without hard evidence and where will that get us? Not on the road to career advancement.’

Probus nodded broodingly. ‘You’re improving,’ he conceded. ‘The Chief’s plan is as unsubtle as the man himself. We want to protect the Praetorian wages train but we also want to arrest the conspirators. Even if Septicius Clarus isn’t there on the night, we could net a few who may be able to identify them.’

He rose. ‘We’ll go and tell Cassius Nero.’

Flaminius rose. Feeling a little nervous, he followed Probus from the office. He was glad it wasn’t him who had to tell the Chief he was wrong.

On hearing the news, Cassius Nero’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Probus to Flaminius and back. Then he slammed his fist down on the desk.

‘We’ve got to stop them robbing that wages train,’ he said. ‘This convenient note wasn’t convenient enough to tell us where exactly. There are fifteen miles between here and Portus Trajanorum, and you want to pussyfoot around trying to catch the robbers? We guard the wages train with a show of force. If that discourages them, so much the better. We don’t want to encourage them!’

‘As the boy pointed out to me,’ Probus said, ‘they’ll only try again at some point in the future. To deal with the problem we’ve got to look at the causes. If we can take the conspirators prisoner, we may be able to trace them back to the originator. Identify him and we will root the conspiracy out completely. Scare them off this time and they will make another attempt. And this time I doubt they’ll leave their plans lying around, even in cipher.’

He banged on the desk in return. ‘Don’t you see? This is our chance. We may never have another one.’

Cassius Nero sat back, looking thoughtful.

‘Very well, we’ll do it your way—to a point,’ he conceded. ‘We’ll have commissary agents posted at regular points along the road, in concealment, and others shadowing the consignment as it comes up from the coast.’

He pointed at Flaminius. ‘And since you’ve shown yourself to be such a promising youngster, you can lead the guards on the wages train.’ He turned to Probus. ‘You will be coordinating the agents in hiding along the route.’

Probus nodded slowly. ‘This might just work,’ he said.

Flaminius looked from one to the other. He didn’t feel so optimistic.

—18—

Portus Trajanorum, Ides of April (13th April) 122 AD

A day later, as he rode into Portus Trajanorum at the head of a group of mounted guards, the same objections stirred in Flaminius’ mind. Even though it was him who had persuaded the Chief, he still remained full of misgivings. As Cassius Nero had said, the route the wages train would take along the Portus Way, which lay between Portus Trajanorum and Rome, was fifteen miles.

Even with agents posted along the route, as had already been done, it would be difficult to coordinate the exercise over such a distance. Flaminius’ own work was relatively easy, although the agent who was escorting the money upriver in a series of barges probably had the simplest job of all.

If the robbers attacked at any point, and there were several lonely spots between here and the Roman suburbs that they might choose, some time might elapse before Probus’ reinforcements could come to their aid.

The men under Flaminius’ temporary command were Imperial Horse Guards. Fiercely loyal to the emperor, the Germanic horsemen were said to be more trustworthy than the Praetorians themselves. The warriors reminded Flaminius of his earlier command, when he was tribune of auxiliary horse in the Ninth Legion.

Remembering the Ninth turned his thoughts to the massacre in Caledonia, and how his Germanic decurion Hrodmar had been crippled for life in the unequal fight. That had been during the first stage of the fight against the conspirators. He vowed an altar to Mars if the coming fight could be settled without so much slaughter.

At the wharves, he reported to the harbourmaster, a bearded fat man with a cast in one eye, and presented his credentials.

‘You’re on the wages train detail are you, tribune?’ the man asked idly. ‘The money is all under armed guard in warehouse 20. Sign this chitty’—he handed over a papyrus document—‘and it’s all yours.’

The next morning dawned clear and bright and Flaminius set out at the head of the Horse Guards with his heart filled with a mixture of optimism and trepidation. At the centre of the column was a line of pack mules weighed down with strongboxes. All Flaminius had to do was lead the column back to Rome while preparing himself for the inevitable attack.

He expected that it would come at the loneliest point, which would be halfway between the port and the city, but by his calculations they would be riding in bright sunlight by then. Perhaps the attackers would wait until nightfall, but that would mean being close to the edge of the city, bringing with it the greater possibility of capture.

Flaminius had seen no sign of commissary agents along the route from Rome and he saw none as they rode back, but he knew they were there. Perhaps that group of horse traders waiting outside the inn they’d just passed had been Probus’ men. Maybe the Isis devotees who chanted as they marched up the road were agents. Even Flaminius did not know what disguises they had adopted.

But the wind was keen and clean, the clip clop of hoofs and the smell of the horses took Flaminius back to a time when life had been much simpler, before the commissary enmeshed him in its folds. He realised that he’d been happy, looking back at it, when he had been an auxiliary tribune.

It had bothered him that some of the other tribunes looked down their noses at him in the mess, since he was a commander of barbarian troops rather than Roman citizens, but he hadn’t had the connections of people such as Tribune Karus, who came from a senatorial family and naturally commanded the finest legionaries from good Roman stock.

It had seemed a terrible burden at the time, although he had come to revel in the company of his men, Frisians like Hrodmar and his fellows. Few of them spoke very good Latin, while only the best Latin was spoken in the mess, but he’d felt at ease and at home with his barbarian horsemen. He felt something of that now, riding beneath the bright Italian sun with these Germanic cavalrymen, although the Imperial Horse Guards were the cream of the auxiliaries, unlike his turbulent Frisians.

He was beginning to enjoy himself too much. He was on a serious mission, he told himself, not out for a gallop in the countryside. Anywhere, on either side of the road, the robbers could be massing.

They had reached a lonely stretch, the river on one side and open country on the other. Marauders could be concealed within that olive grove he could see on the horizon, or behind that rocky outcrop they were just passing. It wouldn’t do to become too complacent. He knew for a fact that they were going to be attacked at some point.

And yet the attack did not come. The Horse Guards rode on.

Flaminius began to feel foolish. Their plans were based on a line of ciphered writing found in the effects of a murdered centurion. The conspirators could easily have changed the plan since then. As the day drew on and the riders rode ever closer to the outskirts of Rome, Flaminius grew more and more convinced that the plan had changed.

He felt both relief and some embarrassment. Relief, that he would not have to face an attack from an unknown number of robbers; embarrassment, that he had persuaded Probus and Cassius Nero to organise the entire exercise now that it was looking like it was to no avail. It would be good if he could ensure that the pay was brought into Rome without difficulty, but he had staked a lot on the hope that they would capture some of the conspirators, and find out what lay at the heart of the mystery.

At the start they had ridden along the bank of the Tiber, but after six miles the road had continued straight on while the river curved away to the south. Now they were riding into the hills that lay between here and Rome, the route to the Aemilian Bridge from which the road began. The hills were deserted and quiet, the road empty but for the riders, the skies above empty but for circling birds. The silence was ominous.

But still they rode on. The sun was high in the sky. It was nearly noon. No wonder few travellers were on the roads; anyone with any sense was having their siesta now. Should they halt themselves, he wondered, and continue a few hours later when it grew cooler?

Decurion Segomarus rode up. He was mopping at his brow beneath the heavy helmet he wore, and his pale German skin was an angry red.

‘Sir?’ he said, riding alongside. His Latin was hard to follow due to his thick accent. ‘It’s getting hot. Shouldn’t we rest?’

Before Flaminius could reply the air whistled jauntily and suddenly a thin branch grew out of Segomarus’ neck. He exchanged a disbelieving glance with the decurion and Segomarus slid slowly off his horse. In a horror Flaminius recognised the branch as an arrow.

He looked about him, glimpsing figures running amidst the thorn bushes on one side of the road. The air whistled again and arrows filled it like angry hornets. Two more men fell before Flaminius shouted an order. The survivors raised shields and formed a square around the pack mules. Horses galloped madly, dust rose up from the road surface.

Flaminius scanned the surrounding landscape. Bowmen were visible two hundred yards away, crouching amid thorns where the horses couldn’t go.

He called forward his horse archers. The four men rode forwards. Flaminius gestured at the ambushers among the thorns. ‘Loose!’

The horse archers returned the fire of the robbers. Flaminius looked about him warily. Surely they could expect more than simply a missile attack? As if to confirm his suspicions, he heard a clamour from behind, and turned to see the far side of the square under attack.

The attackers were armoured men on horseback, and they wore paradeground helmets whose Amazon faceplates kept their features concealed. His Horse Guards fought back manfully but as they did, dozens more riders burst out from behind a rocky outcrop and streamed towards the embattled warriors.

He drew his sword and galloped round the square. The hilt was firm and fitted sweetly into his hand. Despite the noonday heat and the acrid dust, as arrows swooped through the air and the ring of blade on blade echoed from the rocks, he again found himself cast back to rainy Britain, fighting hostile barbarians at the head of his auxiliary troop. Reaching the side facing the new attackers, he tugged at his horse’s reins, turned his head to the men on this side and bellowed at them.

‘Stand firm!’ he told them. ‘Protect those mules!’

The road thundered with the sound of hoofs. He turned to see the robbers, who also hid their identity behind masked helmets, spurring their steeds as they charged the square. They carried lances that looked like they were military issue, and flashed in the bright sunlight as they levelled them at the patiently waiting Horse Guards.

Then they hit, and all was thrown into chaos and confusion on Flaminius’ side of the square.

Helmeted figures thrust lances. Horses screamed, men fell in the dust. Blades flashed dazzlingly in the spring sunlight.

Heart pounding, Flaminius swung his long sword at the nearest rider. The man caught the blow with his shield—which had been painted a deep black—then lunged at Flaminius with his lance. Gritting his teeth, Flaminius hacked off the lance head with a swinging blow then thrust his sword backhanded to sink it under the faceplate of his attacker’s helmet. With a muffled cry, the man dropped from his horse.

Even as he turned, Flaminius flinched as a sword was swung straight at him. It clanged from his helmet, dazing him. His vision cleared and he saw another robber was attacking him, sword swinging. He raised his own and parried the swashing blows, then lunged when the man paused for breath. He heard a harsh curse in a foreign language as his blade sank into flesh, broke through bone, and the man fell back in a miasma of gore.

Tugging at his reins with his left hand, Flaminius drew back to assess the situation unfolding around him. All along this side of the square, robbers and Horse Guards were embattled. On two other sides, fighting was ongoing. The final side, that facing down the road towards Rome, stood firm. But even as he watched, the robbers broke through on the side that had been attacked by archers, seven or eight of them whooping madly as they rode towards the heavily laden mules.

Where in Hades was Probus and his commissary legionaries? The plan was all going awry. Flaminius grabbed his trumpeter and shouted, ‘Give the call to fall back to the baggage animals!’

Three clear blasts, repeated several times, broke the roar of the fight, and the Horse Guards began to disengage and bunch around the braying, terrified mules. Flaminius rode straight for the leader of the men who had broken through, swinging his sword as he came closer. The leader, whose red beard peeped out from beneath his masked helmet, reached out to grab the bridle of a bucking mule. As he did so, Flaminius brought his blade whipping down.

It sliced through the man’s wrist with a grisly sound of breaking bone, audible even over the noise of fighting, and blood sprayed across the terrified pack animal. The mule broke and ran, throwing its pack, skittering round and round the road like a mad thing as it met rider after rider. Then it broke free and vanished into the rocks.

The man Flaminius had attacked was hanging half off his saddle as his horse reared, and the road was black with blood. The robbers were prevailing. Flaminius reached out to grab the bridle of the man’s horse and led it away, then ordered the nearby trumpeter to sound the retreat.

The surviving Horse Guards split from the fight and followed Flaminius and the trumpeter down the road to Rome.

At the next rise, Flaminius halted, his riders milling around him, and looked back with a pang of regret to see the robbers vanishing into the surrounding thickets, driving the mules before them. Huddled bodies, men and horses, lay in the road. Kites and ravens circled speculatively in the air high above. As Flaminius looked back, the man whose horse he had seized slid off it.

He jumped down and went to investigate. The man lay still. He wasn’t breathing. Closer inspection revealed he was dead, no doubt of blood loss from his severed wrist. Flaminius tore back the faceplate of the helmet to reveal a bearded face, with the red hair and the blue eyes he associated with the Germans of the Horse Guard.

Two Horse Guards rode up, leading between them a robber who they had sat on his horse facing the tail. His helmet faceplate was pulled up to reveal another classically Germanic face.

‘We took prisoner,’ one Horse Guard said. ‘Man of the Suebi, my people’s enemies.’

Flaminius remounted and rode towards the prisoner. He battered and bruised but didn’t look likely to die on them. Much better than the handless corpse he had captured. Again, it was a Germanic barbarian—an auxiliary?

‘I know this man,’ said Segomarus, riding forwards, an angry look on his ruddy features. ‘One of us! A Horse Guard! Hildred is his name.’ He struck the man across the side of the head.

‘That’s enough, decurion,’ Flaminius told him.

‘But sir,’ Segomarus said. ‘He brings shame on all our people!’ The rest of the Horse Guards rumbled their discontent.

‘Who put you up to this?’ Flaminius asked Hildred. The renegade looked back at him in silence, and shook his head.

‘He won’t tell you,’ Segomarus said impatiently. ‘Let us light a fire and heat up some irons. We’ll soon force the truth from the traitor.’

‘No. We’ll take him back with us,’ said Flaminius. ‘The commissary has interrogators who will obtain the facts with more subtlety. We’ll learn who was behind this attack. Some of you, ride back to the hill and gather the dead. They’ll receive burial in Rome.’

Honourable burial, he hoped, although he had his doubts about the renegades.

Segomarus detailed a group of Horse Guards to carry out the order. He rode closer to Flaminius, still keeping his eyes on the taciturn Hildred. ‘This is a matter between my country folk,’ he said in an urgent, low voice. ‘Best settled by us!’

Flaminius shook his head, imperturbable. ‘You and your men will be well rewarded,’ he said. ‘But Hildred is a prisoner of the commissary. I was hoping for more captives than this, but the attackers were too many and too much of a match for us.’

He wondered what had happened to Probus.

‘Do you think they were all Horse Guards?’ Segomarus asked as they rode on. ‘What treachery is this? They stole the money we were supposed to be guarding. Our own pay, some of it.’

The men sent to gather the bodies of the slain Horse Guards were beginning to trot back, their dead comrades bundled over the backs of their former steeds. Flaminius didn’t answer Segomarus’ question—he hoped the sacrifice would be worth it, now that they had a captive to question—but instead he sat watching the approach of his men.

Lifting a hand he gestured Romewards. ‘Ride!’ he commanded.

They reached the suburbs as people were arising from their siesta. The streets were almost deserted as they galloped towards the Aemilian Bridge, but by the time they had reached the Caelian Hill the city was bustling.

The Horse Guards rode into the Castra Peregrina and Segomarus gave the prisoner into commissary custody before the troop departed to its own barracks, taking with them the bodies of the slain. Flaminius remained with the prisoner and two commissary legionaries.

Probus entered the courtyard at the head of a group of legionaries. They led several captives—Germans, bearded and bound. Probus saluted as Flaminius came forward anxiously.

‘Where were you?’ the tribune demanded. ‘We were attacked as we crossed the hills. There was no sign of you. Several of my men were killed.’

Probus was tired and travel stained but seemed more alive than he had in weeks. He gestured to the captives with his thumb.

‘We weren’t far away, but you were too quick for us. You rode off before we could catch up. But we rounded up this little flock of barbarians.’

Flaminius examined Probus’ captives. This changed matters. He had been worried that his own prisoner might prove intractable, but with so many to choose from they would surely be able to extract the information they needed.

‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’ Probus added mockingly. ‘The real pay should be being offloaded at a jetty on the Tiber in a short while.’

‘What?’ Flaminius said, astounded. ‘The real pay? The pay was taken by robbers!’

‘We sent the money by a different route,’ Probus said. ‘We filled the wages train with junk to imitate money, but the money itself was taken up the Tiber. We used this as an attempt to trap the robbers.’

‘You could have at least told me!’ Flaminius said. Turning to the legionaries, he gestured at the captives. ‘Take them away. They’ll be interrogated in their turn.’

He went inside to report to Cassius Nero and Probus went with him.

‘So it seems your plan was a success,’ the Chief said to Probus with grim approval, after he had listened to the tribune’s report. ‘You got the prisoners you wanted, and the strongboxes containing the real money are being taken under armed guard to the Praetorian camp as we speak.’

‘Now all we have to do is see what information we can get from them,’ Flaminius said. ‘They seem to be members of the Imperial Horse Guards, but the captive I took refused to admit who told him to make this attack. All of them were kitted out with paradeground helmets, ensuring that their faces were covered.’

There was a knock at the door. Impatiently, the Chief barked, ‘Enter.’

Junius Italicus entered, looking agitated. ‘Chief,’ he said, saluting. ‘The men detailed to escort the pay from the river to the camp…’

‘Well?’ the Chief demanded.

‘They’ve been attacked,’ he said. ‘In broad daylight. Several were killed. The money’s been taken. The prefect wants to speak to you,’ he added.

The Chief rose. ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ he barked. He turned to Flaminius and Probus. ‘Stay here. I’ll go and speak to Septicius Clarus.’

He stalked out of the office. As Junius Italicus turned to follow him, he looked at Flaminius and saluted again. ‘The empress sends her compliments,’ he said, ‘and she wishes to see the cohort on duty at the palace as soon as possible. She has decided to retire to the Villa for the foreseeable future, and request you attend her tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, centurion,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ll arrange it when this is over.’

Probus and Flaminius were left alone in Cassius Nero’s office.

‘The conniving bastard!’ Probus exploded. ‘He’s at the back of it and he has the gall to call the Chief to his office to complain that his own men have robbed their wages!’ He shook his head. ‘You have to admire his cheek, I suppose.’

Flaminius didn’t agree. ‘Men have died today,’ he said. ‘And for what? Money that was stolen anyway. You realise what this means? Unless we can find some real evidence to present to the empress, Septicius Clarus will be able to carry out his coup, and who knows what will be waiting for Hadrian when he returns.’

Again he remembered Agamemnon’s homecoming.

‘All our planning has been wasted,’ he added. ‘We’ve got nowhere.’

‘We have won something today,’ Probus insisted. ‘We have those prisoners. If one of them’s willing to blab, we’ll have evidence against the conspirators. And that’s what we need.’

He turned on his heel. ‘I’ll begin the interrogations,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, it’s time for you to return to duty… but don’t be expecting any pay in the near future. Don’t worry, when the conspirators make themselves a new emperor, you’ll all get a bonus.’

They parted in the corridor. Probus hurried down to the interrogation room, but Flaminius headed for the exit. He’d have to go to the Praetorian camp and round up his cohort. After that, he was at the empress’ bidding. Having savoured all the dubious excitements that Rome had had to offer him, he thought he might enjoy a nice relaxing trip into the countryside.

—19—

Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 14th April, 122 AD

A day later he was riding at the head of his cohort, escorting the empress and her retinue up the tree lined drive of the Villa.

Junius Italicus rode at his side. Behind him marched the Praetorians, and in their midst was the empress’ carriage, containing the empress herself and her closest slaves. It was followed by another containing her handmaidens. Riding alongside were several men including Ursus Servianus. Also among them, riding on an ass, was Suetonius Tranquillus.

Septicius Clarus had been kept behind by Praetorian matters—no doubt he was plotting something, Flaminius told himself—but somehow the imperial secretary and the prefect seemed to have become reconciled.

Flaminius hoped Probus would be speedy in getting a confession out of the imprisoned Horse Guards. The conspirators must be close to making their move. He looked back at the handmaidens’ carriage.

He’d seen very little of Medea recently; it seemed the empress had discouraged her away consorting with him. The empress herself had spoken to him very little other than to ask how the investigation was proceeding, although she had hinted at a further, more in-depth discussion at a later time.

‘Looking for your little friend?’

Junius Italicus was staring quizzically at him. Flaminius grunted something meaningless and looked ahead to where the terraces and lawns of the Villa were coming steadily closer.

He wasn’t at all sure about his chief centurion. The man had the constant air that he knew more than he let on, and Flaminius was more than half sure that he was an agent for the conspirators.

Or maybe he was starting at shadows. Well, maybe he had reason. Maybe it was just the man’s manner. But he wouldn’t trust the centurion as a confidante, that was certain.

As the cavalcade reached the main villa complex, slaves appeared from the buildings, and rushed to hold the horses’ reins as Flaminius and the others dismounted. The Praetorians formed a guard of honour leading to the empress’ carriage. After a short pause she disembarked with the aid of her handmaidens and waddled up to the main palace, followed by Ursus Servianus, Suetonius Tranquillus, the handmaidens and several other hangers on. Once the empress had mounted the steps to the villa, Flaminius left a small contingent of Praetorians on guard outside and led the rest of them to the barracks.

After posting guards and despatching patrols, he settled into his office and contemplated his next move. He was really no closer to identifying Messalus’ murderer, although he had gathered some circumstantial evidence that Septicius Clarus was conspiring against the emperor—hopefully more solid proof would be provided by the commissary interrogators. For the moment, however, his investigation into Centurion Messalus’ death had been stymied.

As he was going over the evidence so far he heard a knock on the door. He shouted ‘Come,’ and in came a Praetorian and an imperial chamberlain. The guard gestured at the chamberlain.

‘Messenger from the empress,’ he said.

The chamberlain minced forwards. ‘Ma’am requests your presence in the main atrium,’ he said. ‘Please follow me.’

‘Very well.’ Flaminius was glad of the excuse to get out of the office, although he had a nasty feeling the empress would want to discuss the investigation.

He followed the chamberlain from the barracks, and up the steps beneath the great portico. On entering the hushed, softly lit, slightly perfumed apartments, he was taken to the main atrium. The empress lounged on a couch in the sunlight, looking a little bored, surrounded by her usual coterie of handmaidens. Medea sat at the back. Flaminius met her gaze but she looked away. Two Praetorians stood on guard at the entrance.

Suetonius Tranquillus sat nearby, reading from a scroll. The empress clapped her hands. ‘That will be all, secretary,’ she said, interrupting him in mid flow.

Suetonius Tranquillus looked up. ‘Ah,’ he said a little coldly, ‘I see the tribune is here. Would you like me to continue my reading later?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the empress said, flapping a hand. ‘Return in an hour. I wish to discuss the progress of the tribune’s investigation. Run along now, all of you. Yes, you too, girls. It will be just the tribune and I.’

Suetonius Tranquillus rose, tugging his toga round his bony shoulders, put the scroll into a long thin box which he slung over his back by a leather strap, and stalked out. Medea led her fellow handmaidens through a different exit.

Smiling, the empress patted the seat on which Suetonius Tranquillus had been sitting. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it,’ she instructed him. ‘Your superior the prefect will be joining us later, and you can give him your formal report. But for the moment, you can tell me everything you have learnt.’ Her eyes grew wide. ‘Have you made any progress since our last meeting? Are you any closer to learning who the real killer was?’

Flaminius sat as ordered. He was about to answer when he saw Medea still standing in the doorway, half hidden behind a gauzy curtain. She was listening intently. The empress followed his gaze and her eyes narrowed.

‘I said run along, girl,’ she said, her voice frosty.

Medea looked up, startled, then vanished out of sight.

‘Nosy, that young woman,’ the empress remarked. ‘Never mind. Now, tell me all about it.’ She sipped at a glass of wine without offering him one.

Flaminius was quite glad she didn’t. He had got into the habit of exchanging glasses whenever anyone offered him one, and he couldn’t see how to take that precaution here.

‘Well, ma’am,’ he began. ‘There have been a number of developments. I can’t say for certain who the murderer was but…’ He paused, and added awkwardly, ‘The murder seems to be part of a larger conspiracy.’

The empress giggled with delight. ‘You’ve uncovered a plot? How thrilling. Tell all.’

‘I’d rather not say too much without more evidence,’ he told her, ‘but I assure you that it is no laughing matter.’ It would be a bad idea to accuse the prefect without solid proof. ‘Do you remember how I came to be seconded to the Praetorian Guard?’

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then it all came back to her.

‘Your daring rescue of my husband,’ she said. ‘There was that man Rufinus Crassus who you dealt with. He died of a sudden distemper, or according to Erichtho he was poisoned. But that was all before you joined the Praetorians, and long before your chief centurion was murdered.

‘That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, you know,’ she added reprovingly. ‘Investigating his murder. Not wallowing in nostalgia.’

‘Of course,’ said Flaminius. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. But I think that there’s a connection between the two murders. And yes, I do think Rufinus Crassus was murdered.’

The empress rubbed at her brow as if she had a headache. ‘So who murdered Rufinus Crassus?’ she asked. ‘If it’s true, whoever was his murderer should also be brought to justice.’

‘I think justice has been served,’ he told her, ‘of a sort. I’m pretty sure it was Messalus who murdered Rufinus Crassus.’

Her face seemed to clear. ‘You think it was the late senator’s family who had the centurion killed? But they’re of senatorial rank. They surely wouldn’t have to resort to poison.’

‘I don’t think the family murdered him,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve spoken to the widow and she has no idea why her husband was killed. No, I think Rufinus Crassus was murdered at the orders of the conspirators.’

The empress wriggled to make herself more comfortable. ‘Ah yes, your conspiracy,’ she murmured in indulgent tones. ‘But you said that you think Messalus killed the senator. Was he part of this plot? Surely not. A mere centurion?’ Then a thought seemed to strike her. ‘Surely a conspiracy needs to have a purpose. I’m confused. What were these mysterious conspirators intending to achieve?’

‘Not were, ma’am,’ he corrected her ominously. ‘I think the conspiracy still exists, if in a modified form. I strongly believe that the conspirators plan to assassinate your husband.’

After long a silence, the empress said, ‘But you say you don’t have any evidence?’

He spread his hands. ‘Nothing very conclusive. Except that Rufinus Crassus attempted to murder the emperor.’

‘That’s old news,’ she said. She rubbed at her temples. ‘Are you suggesting that the senator who tried to assassinate my husband during my birthday celebrations last year was a member of this supposed conspiracy?’

Flaminius tried to conceal his impatience. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘That’s exactly what I believe.’

‘And Messalus killed him?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then I must give my thanks to the shade of Messalus!’ she told him. ‘But you said you think Messalus was part of the conspiracy. It doesn’t make any sense. Surely, if he killed the assassin and then was killed himself, that would mean that these mysterious conspirators—who you have yet to identify—killed him because he killed their assassin. Wouldn’t that make him as much of a hero as you are?’

He stared at her in disbelief. The emperor had not married Sabina for her intelligence.

‘I think,’ he said patiently, ‘that he was killed because he was about to confess to me that he had murdered Rufinus Crassus.’

He saw a watchful look come over her. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘He did admit to murdering one senator,’ Flaminius explained. ‘Senator Nigrinus. One of your husband’s old enemies from before he was emperor. Do you remember?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said instantly. ‘He and three others were put to death on my husband’s orders.’

This would confirm that Hadrian himself had had the senators put to death, and it hadn’t been the work of an overzealous prefect. Still, he didn’t get the impression that the couple were close. Quite possibly she knew no more of her husband’s affairs than anyone else. Or was the emperor really a tyrant who operated Praetorian death squads?

‘He murdered Nigrinus,’ she went on. ‘But what has that to do with Rufinus Crassus? I remember,’ she added, ‘that everyone was very upset about the killing of Nigrinus and his colleagues…’

Upset! Flaminius thought satirically. ‘I spoke to Centurion Messalus,’ he told her, ‘and asked him a few questions. In his cups, the centurion admitted to assassinating Nigrinus. He was about to admit to another killing—I’m sure it was of Rufinus Crassus—when something happened to distract him, and I never got another chance to ask him.’

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Because he was murdered later that night,’ he said.

‘And you don’t yet know who murdered him?’ she said. ‘Remember, you are the only person who has been accused of the murder. No one else has even been accused. And from what I’ve heard from your superior, you have not conducted yourself well during your brief time in the Guard.’

Suddenly she was in deadly earnest.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know who murdered him,’ he said. ‘I have my suspicions, though.’

‘Oh?’ she challenged him. ‘Pray tell.’

He took a deep breath, then remembered his previous resolution. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t accuse anyone without hard evidence.’

‘But you suspect someone,’ she said, ‘and you must have a reason, if not hard evidence. Who do you suspect and why?’

‘Septicius Clarus,’ he said. She laughed.

He stared at her in confusion. She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘You think the prefect poisoned your chief centurion?’ She seemed to think it absurd.

Nettled, he gave a curt nod. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘I think he is part of the conspiracy against your husband.’

She went quiet. ‘That’s a very serious charge,’ she said after a moment. ‘And you haven’t explained why you think the prefect is involved.’

Flaminius picked his words fastidiously. ‘Everyone thought I had poisoned Messalus,’ he said, ‘because I had obtained that cantharadin from Erichtho. But when the prefect visited me in my office, he picked up the phial and inspected it.’

‘What of it?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure many men are familiar with the drug; not as a poison, naturally, only murderers and assassins would have that knowledge—but as a cure for… small, personal problems,’ she added delicately, spoiling the effect with a girlish giggle. ‘This certainly isn’t enough evidence to implicate your superior in murder and conspiracy. Besides, he has an alibi—namely, me. He was in the palace at the time of the murder, and shortly after he was called from there by the guards who found the body. Is this all you have? He looked at your phial of cantharadin?’

‘And it went missing shortly afterwards,’ Flaminius said. He was sweating. Put into words, told to an independent observer, it sound ridiculous. ‘There are other reasons why I think he’s involved in a conspiracy,’ he added lamely. He knew he shouldn’t have spoken without being able to give solid evidence; now he looked a fool. He rose and began to pace up and down the mosaic floor.

‘I’d be fascinated to hear them,’ she said, suppressing a snort of laughter. ‘Are they all as threadbare as the first?’

Angry, he said, ‘Do you want your husband to be murdered?’

In silence, frowning, she shook her head.

He sat down again. ‘Let me tell you, I have reason to believe that the Praetorian Prefect is planning an uprising. He means to get rid of the emperor, your husband.’

‘And put himself in his place?’ she giggled. ‘The senate would never accept it. The fellow’s only an equestrian. You might as well try to make yourself emperor as the prefect.’

She was openly mocking him now.

‘I never said he wanted to make himself emperor,’ he told her coldly. ‘He has senators amongst his co-conspirators. I first got wind of this plot in Britain. That was how I came to rescue the emperor from Rufinus Crassus…’

She yawned. ‘I think that single event has gone to your head!’ she told him. ‘We’re all very grateful for your dashing heroic act, saving the day. But you can hardly hope to trade on it forever. I can see no reason to link Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt with the Praetorian Prefect, of all people. After all, he ordered Centurion Messalus to murder the man in his cell. That doesn’t make him part of any imaginary conspiracy, simply the man who had the assassin dealt with. And quite right too.’

Flaminius said nothing. He studied her intently. After a moment, he said, ‘Very well, perhaps I’m wrong. I told you that I had no hard evidence. Let me continue my investigation and I’m sure the prefect will be exonerated in time.’

She looked doubtful. ‘Well, you just remember, if you can’t provide hard evidence that someone else murdered Centurion Messalus, we will have no option but to try you for the crime. And as your prefect pointed out, without any other suspects, the chances are that you will be found guilty. That’s the sword of Damocles hanging over your head, tribune.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Briskly he hurried from the atrium, helmet under his left arm, the picture of military efficiency. Sabina watched his departure in silence, mulling over his discoveries and his assertions. Back came his theory about who had killed the centurion.

She lay back, body wracked with silent laughter.

‘Septicius Clarus…!’ she said scornfully. It was too much.

Suddenly she was bored and lonely. She called for her handmaidens and they came fluttering back into the atrium in all their gauzy, gaudy loveliness. Medea was among them.

‘Were you listening, you naughty girl?’ Sabina teased her. ‘After you were told not to?’

Medea flushed. ‘I overheard something,’ she said. ‘Does Gaius think Septicius Clarus murdered his centurion?’ She looked concerned.

‘Gaius?’ Sabina asked vaguely. ‘Oh, you mean Tribune Flaminius.’ She sighed. ‘Yes, the tribune believes that Septicius Clarus is at the back of the conspiracy.’ She threw her head back. ‘He knows nothing. Conspiracy indeed! I know of no conspiracy.’ She flung a look at Medea. ‘Do you?’

Medea bit her lip, looked down at her feet and shook her head.

‘I’m fed up,’ Sabina announced. ‘We were halfway through the secretary’s exciting account of the dark days of the Emperor Nero. Go and find him, Medea, and bring him back. It wasn’t quite as thrilling as I anticipated, but what else is there to do today?

‘I do wish my husband would come back from the wars. Then at least there would be someone I could have a good quarrel with…’

Medea slipped out. while she was gone, the other handmaidens did their best to entertain Sabina with their conversation. The poetess Julia Balbilla recited a short ode, whose high flown metaphors and literary allusions quite went over the empress’ head. The Nubian girl, Amanitore, told them tales of her upbringing among the anthropophagi, in lands where all were as dark skinned as she.

Sabina had heard that in those barbarian countries some men had no heads but kept their eyes in their chests, while others had only one leg and one foot which they used to shade themselves from the sun. But Amanitore had never met any of these people, and claimed never to have heard of them. Sabina yawned, disappointed. She’d heard the stories a hundred times before, so had the others. She really needed something new and exciting in her life.

Instead, Medea returned with Suetonius Tranquillus. The secretary unrolled his scroll again. ‘Shall I begin, ma’am?’ he asked self-importantly.

‘Go on from where you left off,’ she told him.

He scrolled onwards a little, then cleared his throat, struck what he presumably considered to be a dramatic pose, and continued:

‘He began his career of parricide and murder with Claudius, for even if he was not the instigator of the emperor’s death, he was at least privy to it, as he openly admitted; for he used afterwards to laud mushrooms, the vehicle in which the poison was administered to Claudius, as “the food of the gods,” as the Greek proverb has it. At any rate, after Claudius’s death he vented on him every kind of insult, in act and word, charging him now with folly and now with cruelty; for it was a favourite joke of his to say that Claudius had ceased “to play the fool” among mortals, lengthening the first syllable of the word morari, and he disregarded many of his decrees and acts as the work of a madman and a dotard. Finally, he neglected to enclose the place where his body was burned except with a low and mean wall.

‘He attempted the life of Britannicus by poison, not less from jealousy of his voice (for it was more agreeable than his own) than from fear that he might sometime win a higher place than himself in the people’s regard because of the memory of his father. He procured the potion from an arch poisoner, one Locusta, and when the effect was slower than he anticipated, merely physicking Britannicus, he called the woman to him and flogged her with his own hand, charging that she had administered a medicine instead of a poison; and when she said in excuse that she had given a smaller dose to shield him from the odium of the crime, he replied: “It’s likely that I am afraid of the Julian law;” and he forced her to mix as swift and instant a potion as she knew how in his own room before his very eyes. Then he tried it on a kid, and as the animal lingered for five hours, had the mixture steeped again and again and threw some of it before a pig. The beast instantly fell dead, whereupon he ordered that the poison be taken to the dining room and given to Britannicus. The boy dropped dead at the very first taste, but Nero lied to his guests and declared that he was seized with the falling sickness, to which he was subject, and the next day had him hastily and unceremoniously buried in a pouring rain. He rewarded Locusta for her eminent services with a full pardon and large estates in the country, and actually sent her pupils.’ [16]

Medea leapt up and ran out of the room.

The empress sat up. Suetonius Tranquillus looked round, blinking in confusion. Sabina turned to her other handmaidens. ‘Someone go and see what’s wrong with that Greek girl,’ she commanded. ‘The rest of you, leave us. I wish to speak with the secretary.’

The handmaidens hurried out after Medea. Suetonius Tranquillus carefully rolled up his scroll and crossed over to Sabina.

‘You wished to speak to me on some matter?’ he said, rather formally. She patted the couch beside her.

‘Sit with me,’ she invited.

Confidently, he sat. ‘You’ve ended your fling with the Praetorian Prefect?’ he asked archly.

Sabina smiled. ‘That was all a misunderstanding,’ she lied. She patted his neatly clasped hands reassuringly. ‘There never was any fling. It was all in your imagination. Everything between us is as it was in the past.’

‘Ah, the past,’ said Suetonius Tranquillus dreamily. ‘The past. It was better then.’

‘You mean when Nero was poisoning all and sundry?’ she asked, deliberately trying to provoke him.

‘No…’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘Before the emperors seized control.’

‘You do know my husband is an emperor?’ she reminded him. She poured a beaker of wine and held it out to him. As he took it and sipped at it, she added, ‘I was brought up by one emperor and I married another.’

‘And yet you yearn for the days of the Republic as much as I,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘So does Septicius Clarus, of course.’

‘So do we all,’ said Sabina, moving closer to him.

They kissed long and passionately. His hands begin to travel up her body, halting and uncertain at first, then diving greedily beneath the material of her stola. She broke off, leaving him looked uncertain. Smiling, she pushed him away.

‘That Praetorian tribune doesn’t seem to yearn for the Republic,’ she commented pensively.

‘The young fellow who was accused of murdering his centurion?’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured, disappointed that she had broken off the kiss. ‘You’ve got him investigating the murder, I understand. Yes, he visited me in the library the other day, asked a lot of silly questions. He seems a reasonable enough fellow, but I supposed all these Praetorians are blindly devoted to the new ways.’

‘Except their prefect, of course,’ Sabina commented.

Suetonius Tranquillus shrugged. ‘Septicius Clarus is an exception. But surely he owes his current situation to others. My old patron Pliny favoured him just as he favoured me. Another man who wanted to see a return to the days when the Senate ruled and there was no “first among equals”. And yet he owed a great deal to Trajan...’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Sabina. ‘Still, I wonder if it wouldn’t have been simpler to have had Tribune Flaminius executed in the first place.’

‘He had an alibi,’ Suetonius Tranquillus reminded her. ‘You surely wouldn’t manufacture evidence to have an inconvenient person removed! That’s the way a despot works. Including, if you don’t mind me saying so, your husband. He had his rivals murdered. But surely we’re better than that.’

Sabina studied him. There was so much he didn’t know about her. He knew a great deal about the past, and had been a help to her. He was also a caring and tender lover beneath that dreamy, pedantic exterior. But for all this he was an impractical man, and he couldn’t be trusted with the secrets she shared with Septicius Clarus. She needed to keep both of them pliant and submissive, and to avoid either learning that the other was still her lover.

She’d tried her wiles on the young tribune, but clearly he was only interested in mere slips of things like that gauche Greek girl, and he had successfully evaded her charms. Now he was learning too much, getting too close to the truth. She had to find some way to deal with him. But how? She had only commissioned his investigation to test their security.

From what he had said, he had learnt a great deal, although he still hadn’t correctly guessed who had committed the murder. That might be the key to dealing with him. She had suggested that he would be found guilty if he didn’t prove the killer’s identity. But in the process of investigating, he had uncovered too much. He would have to go. He would have to go.

What if he did learn the identity of the centurion’s killer? How would he react when he found out the truth?

‘You’re deep in thought,’ Suetonius Tranquillus remarked.

She had said nothing for some time now. He seldom spoke unless spoken to, and even then it was usually little more than a murmur. She had to do all the running in their conversations except the most intimate, when at last he took over. He seemed only capable of asserting his manhood in the bedchamber.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is much on my mind.’

‘The tribune?’ he said. ‘But why do you want to get rid of him?’

Sabina shook her head. ‘I’m afraid he will uncover other matters,’ she said. Inspiration struck. ‘That he will learn about us! You must realise that if word of our affair were to get out, it would be disastrous. My husband would hear of it, and who knows what would happen.’

Suetonius Tranquillus paled. ‘I see,’ he said gravely, and moved away from her. He gazed at her from the end of the couch. ‘I understand why you are so troubled,’ he added. ‘Well, yes, indeed—in that case I can see why he must go. What was the arrangement you made with him?’

‘He must learn the murderer’s identity by tomorrow, or he will be tried and executed for the murder himself.’

Suetonius Tranquillus shook his head. ‘We can’t risk a trial; he may have found out all sorts of things that he might say in public. We must remove him now. But how to do it?’

‘We can’t poison him, of course,’ said Sabina. ‘That would be lowering ourselves to the level of those emperors you write about, just as you said.’

Suetonius Tranquillus stared bleakly into the distance for a long time. She watched him closely. At last his eyes focused on hers. ‘I did say that,’ he murmured. ‘But I wonder. Under these circumstances, perhaps we could take a leaf out of an emperor’s book.’

‘What do you suggest?’ she said, fixing him intently with her eyes.

Suetonius Tranquillus brooded. ‘Caesar was stabbed by the conspirators…That won’t work. Augustus… some say he was killed with poisoned figs…’

‘Figs aren’t in season yet,’ Sabina said, ‘and attacking Flaminius has already been tried. He fought his attackers off.’

Suetonius Tranquillus stared at him. ‘You’ve already tried to kill him?’

The admission had been a mistake. She thought up a lie that would mollify him. ‘The attempt failed. That’s why I decided to seek your erudition. From your ghoulish stories of former emperors, I’m sure we could cook up something. Go on, how did the other emperors die?’

‘Tiberius died naturally... Caligula was assassinated by the Praetorians…Claudius was poisoned by his wife... Not figs this time, but mushrooms.’

‘Mushrooms?’ Sabina gave it some thought. ‘There may be mushrooms in the woods by now. It’s a possibility. Go on.’

‘Nero killed himself,’ Suetonius Tranquillus said, ‘after conspiring to murder several people, including Claudius, some say. He even kicked his own wife to death, you’ll remember!

‘Galba was murdered by supporters of Otho. Otho was killed by supporters of Vitellius. Vitellius was killed by the Roman mob. Vespasian died from a stomach complaint. Titus was poisoned. Domitian was stabbed…’

‘Poison is a theme that runs throughout your work,’ Sabina said darkly. ‘It seems like an omen.’

‘An omen,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured wonderingly. He shook his head. ‘It’s a difficult decision to make, how to take a man’s life. Perhaps we should seek guidance from the gods.’

‘What had you in mind?’ she asked. She knew he was a great believer in magic arts.

‘Vergilian lots,’ said Suetonius Tranquillus. He produced another scroll from his box, a well-thumbed copy of Book One of Virgil’s Aeneid. ‘I find bibliomancy never fails to provide good guidance.’

‘Bibliomancy?’ She knew less of magic than she did of history.

‘It’s quite a new idea,’ he admitted. ‘But we writers certainly find it most congenial. It entails opening a book of Virgil’s at random and interpreting the passage that your eyes first light upon. Shall we?’

Sabina nodded. ‘We certainly need the gods to guide us here,’ she said piously. ‘Do it.’ And then whatever they did would be the gods’ will, she told herself, and she would be absolved of blood guilt.

Unrolling the scroll, eyes closed, he laid it down on the couch. Then he opened his eyes and read what he saw. A grunt escaped his lips. She leant over, trying to read upside down. Their heads brushed gently together, her curls tangling with his sparse hair. She made out:

But Venus, anxious for her son’s affairs,

New counsels tries, and new designs prepares:

That Cupid should assume the shape and face

Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace;

Should bring the presents, in her nephew’s stead,

And in Eliza’s veins the gentle poison shed: [17]

She looked up. So did he. Their eyes met once more.

‘Poison again!’ she murmured.

‘Poison,’ he repeated. He swallowed. ‘Poison.’

‘Poison it is then,’ she said. ‘I must speak with our own little Locusta, wherever she’s hidden herself. In the meantime, I will have the slaves prepare a dinner for tonight. Septicius Clarus will be joining us then, I believe, and we have guests, including Ursus Servianus. I think Tribune Flaminius will also be on the guest list.’

‘Am I right in thinking that during dinner the tribune will meet with… a mishap?’ Suetonius Tranquillus breathed. He gave a nervous little smile. ‘Surely it will put people off their meals.’

She nodded, leaned forward, and kissed him. This time when his fumbling hands quested clumsily across her body she did not shake him off.

Accompanied by Centurion Junius Italicus, Flaminius was checking his patrols. They walked in silence through the park.

Had he got everything wrong? The empress was convinced that Septicius Clarus was innocent. Her reaction had suggested she knew more than he did. What did she know? She was so sure that the prefect was not behind the murder. Did that mean that she knew the murderer’s identity?

Something she had said about Septicius Clarus had puzzled Flaminius; that he had ordered Rufinus Crassus’ murder. Flaminius was sure that Messalus had carried out that murder on Septicius Clarus’ order, but he had not mentioned this suspicion to the empress—he had kept a lot of his conclusions to himself, and that had been one of them. So how did she know?

A patrol marched past them and Junius Italicus halted to return their salutes. Flaminius hadn’t seen them, so deep in thought he was. He halted clumsily, and saluted them in turn.

As he continued his stroll, Junius Italicus commented, ‘Something on your mind, sir? You’re very quiet.’

Flaminius shot a suspicious glance at him. Although he’d been warming to the centurion recently, he was no closer to trusting him than he had ever been. Not that Junius Italicus had ever done anything wrong. But he was constantly watchful, like a hunter. Flaminius wondered who his centurion reported to.

‘Pressures of the job, centurion,’ he said. ‘Simply pressures of the job.’

‘I see, sir,’ Junius Italicus replied. They strolled on.

‘Difficult people to work for,’ the centurion ventured after a short while. ‘All things considered.’

‘We’re the Praetorians, centurion,’ Flaminius told him. ‘This is our work.’

Together they strolled down the gravel path between the laurels. If it wasn’t for his undercover work, Flaminius thought this really would be a cushy number. But Junius Italicus was right. It was the people you met in this job that made it difficult.

He heard a thunder of hoofs and turned to see, in the distance, a messenger riding up an avenue towards the main villa complex. The man dismounted, flung his reins to a waiting slave, and hurried inside. Junius Italicus and Flaminius walked on.

A group of girls crossed their path. Medea was among them. Flaminius caught her eyes but she looked away and hurried after the others. He felt a pang of regret. What for, he couldn’t exactly say.

Returning to barracks, he found an invitation to dinner waiting for him.

‘The empress wants me to join her for a little banquet to celebrate the imminent return of the emperor,’ he told Junius Italicus, after reading the note he found on his desk.

‘It’s a hard life,’ the centurion said, straight faced.

Flaminius cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Enough of your lip, centurion,’ he said. ‘Get about your business.’

After Junius Italicus had departed, Flaminius took his seat at his desk and pondered.

A few hours later, after a refreshing trip to the bathhouse, magnificent in his freshly laundered toga, Flaminius joined the other guests in the atrium of the palace where they were having pre-dinner drinks. A slave played a harp in the corner of the garden. The empress greeted Flaminius after the chamberlain had announced him.

‘I think you know everyone who is present,’ she said.

Flaminius glanced round. There was Suetonius Tranquillus, avoiding his gaze as he examined the floor mosaic, Ursus Servianus, accompanied by his wife Paulina, talking at length to the newly arrived Septicius Clarus, both of them in well laundered togas, Erichtho, standing in the corner glaring suspiciously at people through her tangled hair, and Medea with the rest of the handmaidens.

‘I’ve met them, ma’am,’ he said. ‘It’s an honour to be invited.’

The empress seemed oddly nervous. She glanced at Suetonius Tranquillus, then at Erichtho, and finally at her handmaidens.

‘We’ve come to value your presence here,’ she said. ‘We hope your investigation will solve the mystery of the centurion’s murder, one way or another. In the meantime, what else is there to do but enjoy ourselves? Medea, you’ve been very quiet. Will you accompany the tribune into dinner?’

Medea crossed the atrium to join them.

‘Very well, ma’am,’ she said. The empress drifted away and they were left looking at each other in strained silence.

‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to you recently,’ he said at last.

‘I suppose you must be busy with your investigation,’ she replied distantly.

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius wryly. ‘With what her imperial majesty is pleased to call the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. It’s an incentive, if ever there was one.’

The guests were going in to dinner and her and his companion followed them into the banquet hall. ‘So are you any closer,’ she said, not meeting his gaze, ‘to learning who poisoned the centurion?’

‘This is supposed to be a party,’ Flaminius protested. ‘Can’t we find something more pleasant to talk about?’

‘It’s preying on all our minds,’ Medea confessed, as slaves came forward to pour water over their hands and wash their feet. ‘Well, what do you want to talk about?’

The empress took her place at the head of the room, with Septicius Clarus on the couch beside her own. Everyone else sat down. Flaminius took his couch, Medea reclined on the couch next to him, and they sat almost head to head. She eyed a glass pitcher, glazed with ochre, which a slave had placed on the little table between them, while she toyed absently with a ring on her finger. As the other guests settled down, Flaminius commented on the ring, which he hadn’t seen before.

Medea looked at it as if she had never seen it before. ‘It was a present,’ she told him seriously. ‘From my mistress.’

‘I was about to ask who your new admirer was!’ Flaminius laughed. Medea looked away in silence, her eyes bitter. Flaminius wondered what he had done to offend her.

Matters had been strained between them recently; the empress made it clear that she disapproved of their friendship. He understood that Medea had to obey her mistress’ wishes, and yet now the empress seemed to want them to renew their acquaintance, had thawed towards them. Did she now think Flaminius worthy of her handmaiden’s time? But Medea didn’t seem happy.

What on earth had he done? He could think of nothing. he remembered her listening in to his conversation with the empress. Spying was his business, not hers. What had she wanted to know? He thought back on their days in Britain together, the time they had spent together while her master Governor Falco was absent. Medea had hated Britain’s rains and fogs but she found comfort in the arms of Flaminius.

Maybe she really did have another admirer, he thought with a pang. She was an attractive girl, after all.

More slaves entered the banquet hall bearing plates and platters filled with hors d’oeuvres. Plates of the finest Samian ware were piled high with Alexandrian dates, mussel sausage canapes on a grill of silver, dormice with poppy seed and honey, fish pickles with cheese, and several other delicacies. The food was certainly better than Flaminius had been accustomed to when he was serving with the Ninth Legion.

A slave began to recite excerpts from Ennius’ Annals.

Flaminius tucked into the canapes. All around the guests were chattering as they ate, paying little attention to the slave. Suetonius Tranquillus picked absently at the dates, Ursus Servianus crunched the bones of a dormouse with relish. The empress was drinking wine quietly, displaying little appetite for the morsels spread before her, but Septicius Clarus showed no such restraint.

Erichtho she seemed overwhelmed by the selection, and she was staring around her as if she didn’t know why she had been invited. Flaminius supposed the Marsi were unaccustomed to the food available to the people of the cities.

‘I propose a toast,’ the empress said, lifting her voice over the noise of conversation and raising her glass. ‘To the emperor!’

Dutifully, Flaminius lifted his own drink. Ursus Servianus grinned as the others lifted their glasses. The empress scowled at him, and only then, a little shamefaced, did he lift his own. Even then it was as if in acknowledgement of adulation.

The empress’ voice cut through the hubbub. Even the slave ceased his quiet recital. ‘I gathered you here today,’ she said, ‘for several reasons. But since then I have received a message. His imperial majesty, my husband, has departed the cold shores of Britain and will soon be returning to civilised lands.’

Everyone started talking at once. Again her voice cut through.

‘My husband has had word of disturbances in the East, and is going to find some way of making a settlement with the Parthians. However, there is a chance that he will deign to visit us on his way. If so, I want him to see nothing out of the ordinary.’ Her voice seemed to have an edge of menace to it.

Ursus Servianus spluttered on his drink. ‘I’m sure my brother in law will see nothing untoward,’ he said, wiping the residue off his clean shaven chin. He indicated his wife. ‘Paulina would make sure of that!’

She looked at him disapprovingly, but said nothing as usual.

Septicius Clarus grinned, and ran his fingers over his bald patch. ‘Should his imperial majesty visit the villa, I’m sure my men will be able to receive him warmly.’

Flaminius felt it necessary to say something at this point. ‘I’ll make sure my men are on permanent standby,’ he told the prefect.

Septicius Clarus looked over at him coldly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we replaced your cohort with Fabricius Cotta’s mob. His spit’n’polish approach is what the emperor will be anticipating. He’s not someone I’ve had to have confined on two separate occasions.’

Chastened, Flaminius withdrew himself from the conversation.

With a flourish of trumpets, the slaves entered bearing the main course. First slaves bearing bowls of iced water came round so diners could rid themselves of stains and crumbs. Then the main group of slaves brought in trays containing stuffed capons, sow’s udders, and a large sucking pig with anise and chives, served with dasheens and sour cream. In between them all were several different kinds of fish in fish sauces.

‘I don’t seem to have made much of an impression in the Praetorian Guard,’ Flaminius said bitterly to Medea as the slaves brought round the second course. He helped himself to a capon.

She looked at him wide eyed. ‘I’d say you’ve made quite an impression,’ she told him. ‘You were trouble when I met you in Britain and you’ve been trouble in Rome.’

Flaminius turned away, hurt. He concentrated his attentions on his capon. The sooner he could thwart this conspiracy and get out of this cloying atmosphere the better. He’d had more than enough of civilisation, and was half hoping to be stationed back to the barbarian north once this was all over. He’d had enough. He wanted to be released.

The conversation moved on to banalities, and he felt excluded, first by Septicius Clarus’ rudeness, and then by Medea’s cold attitude. Really, he didn’t know why he’d been invited. No one seemed to like him. He tried to strike up a conversation with Suetonius Tranquillus, having got on with him quite well on previous occasions, but the secretary was sullen and uncommunicative.

Flaminius sat quietly through the meal. Despite the flow of inconsequential chatter, there seemed to be a sombre undercurrent to the conversation.

Once the main course was over, slaves entered again to remove the dishes. Flaminius felt full, but far from satisfied. More slaves entered bearing amphorae whose cobwebbed terracotta exteriors proclaimed the age of the wine contained. A slave placed one with Medea and Flaminius. Flaminius saw a label on it that proclaimed it to be Falernian of the Opimian vintage. Despite himself he was impressed. That made it a century and a half old. Opimian was getting increasingly rare.

Suetonius Tranquillus was also examining the amphora he had been given. He spoke in his soft voice. ‘For those of you who don’t know your wine, this vintage was laid down during the consulship of Lucius Opimius[18], who crushed the Gracchi. The Republic was preserved in his day, and so was this wine. Alas, that wine should outlive the Republic!’

‘Life is short,’ said Septicius Clarus, ‘for republics and empires.’

Medea turned to Flaminius, sitting on the edge of her couch. She smiled at him, but it seemed more like the rictus of a corpse. Again she was toying with her ring.

‘May I pour you a glass?’ she asked. The slave had decanted the vintage into the glass pitcher and placed two beakers beside it.

Flaminius was surprised. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s very kind!’

‘Tribune,’ the empress called over, ‘give us your impression of these recent disturbances in the East. We know you are experienced in fighting barbarians.’

Flaminius looked around him. The tension in the room seemed to have increased and yet everyone was being nice to him all of a sudden.

‘Well, ma’am,’ he said, aware that all eyes were on him. Out of the corner of his own eye, he saw that Medea had poured him a glass of wine and was mixing it with water. ‘I’ve never been to the East. I should think that the Parthians are a different matter from the painted Caledonians I fought in Britain.’

‘Those Caledonians have been thoroughly trounced by his imperial majesty,’ Septicius Clarus remarked. ‘But will the Parthians be as easy to deal with?’

‘I’m not sure the Caledonians were easy to defeat, either,’ Flaminius said. ‘But really, I’m no expert on Eastern matters.’

He felt nervous. His mouth was dry. He reached for the glass of wine, then hesitated. Medea was looking over at Ursus Servianus as he began to give his opinion of the Parthian threat and regaled the company with his own extensive experiences in the East. Quickly he switched glasses. It was becoming a habit.

Medea turned round as he sipped from the glass. Her face was pale as she looked at him. She picked up her own glass and nursed it at her breast.

‘Do you suppose the Parthians are anything like the barbarians we met in Britain?’ he asked her.

She started, almost spilt her drink. ‘The barbarians in Britain?’ she asked. ‘I hated them. They were savage.’

‘The Parthians live in great cities, ancient cities like Babylon,’ Flaminius said. ‘The Caledonians had nothing like that. The Parthians may be barbarians in many ways but they have some civilisation.’

‘I know nothing about barbarians,’ Medea said. ‘They’re cruel and murderous.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘You think only barbarians have those particular vices?’ He trailed off as he saw she was sweating. ‘Are you feeling alright?’

‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘Drink your wine.’

He sipped at it again. ‘This is a marvellous vintage,’ he told her.

‘You like it?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Won’t you try your own? It’ll make you feel better.’

She looked at the drink. With a shrug, she drank from it.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ he enthused. ‘You’re right; civilisation wins out over barbarism, if this wine is what it produces.’

She turned to look at him glassily. Her hair was matted with sweat. She opened her mouth to say something but only a terrible, sinister gurgle came out. Flaminius stared in shock.

She fell writhing from her couch onto the mosaic floor. Her breathing was harsh and erratic. Then, with a horrible sense of finality, one last breath sighed from her lips and she moved no more.

The room rose in uproar but Flaminius was frozen in his place. Erichtho pushed her way through the shouting figures. By the time she knelt down beside Medea’s body, the girl had stopped writhing. Erichtho put her fingers on the girl’s neck.

Abruptly she rose and stared accusingly at Flaminius.

‘She’s been poisoned,’ Erichtho said.

—20—

Medea lay motionless on the mosaic floor. Grief stricken, Flaminius rose and took up her body, cradling it in his arms, staring uncomprehendingly at Erichtho. Images of his time with Medea flashed through his mind. How could she have been poisoned? He’d swapped their glasses, yes; it had become a habit since Messalus’ death. But he had never seriously expected Medea to be the poisoner.

Septicius Clarus strode forward. ‘You’ve killed her. This lovely young girl! You’ve poisoned her. I saw you give her the poisoned drink.’

Flaminius lowered Medea’s body onto her couch. His voice cut through the din, strong and powerful.

‘How could you have known that it was poisoned?’ he demanded. ‘I exchanged the glasses, yes, but Medea drank the glass meant for me. If it was poisoned, the poisoner was trying to kill me.’ He took a look at Medea’s rigid, horrified face at his feet. ‘She poured me the wine. She…’

She must have meant to poison him. But why? They had been friends, lovers once. His eyes narrowed as he remembered how he had abused that friendship for the sake of his career.[19] It had been his own intrigues that had resulted in her previous employer casting her out. Only luck, and her own charm, had secured her this new position with the empress. And again he had abused their friendship, asking her to spy on the people in the Villa.

Had she been a double agent all along?

The empress herself looked on with her face pale, her lips grey. ‘Put him under arrest, prefect,’ she said formally. ‘We thought he was the murderer of the centurion, but he wriggled off the hook with some concocted alibi, and has wasted our time ever since claiming to be investigating the killing. Everyone in this room saw him poison my handmaiden. He won’t get away with it this time. Take him to be confined. As soon as the formalities of the trial are over, he will be executed.’

Flaminius looked about the dining chamber, hunted. Septicius Clarus produced a sword from beneath his toga.

‘It was accidental killing,’ Flaminius said, playing for time as the prefect advanced. ‘The law says I must provide a ram for a sacrifice of atonement[20], but I am not subject to the death sentence.’

The exit was on the far side. Several dining couches occupied the floor between Flaminius and freedom—and what uncertain liberty did that open doorway represent? No time to worry about it; he had to get away, back to Probus. Murder was one thing, but there was a plot afoot to kill the emperor. He had to get away.

As these thoughts scurried through Flaminius’ mind, Septicius Clarus brandished his sword.

‘A fair trial will determine whether or not the killing was accidental,’ the prefect said. ‘You’re coming with me.’ When Flaminius made no move to go with him, he turned his head to one side, and called out, ‘Guards!’

Flaminius broke and ran.

He shoved Septicius Clarus to one side, so the prefect collided with Medea’s couch and fell backwards, sprawling over her lifeless body, his dropped sword clattering across the mosaic floor. Frightened feasters stared up at him as Flaminius hurdled couches and raced for the exit; the empress’ screams and the prefect’s angry shouts rang in his ears. At last he reached the open doorway.

Two armoured figures loomed up before him, breastplates burnished, the crests of their helmets standing proud. He recognised the closer one as Junius Italicus.

‘Sorry about this, sir,’ the centurion said.

He clubbed Flaminius to the floor with the pommel of his sword.

Flaminius awoke to pain. To pain filled darkness. He tried to move and the painful darkness was laced tight with red threads of nausea. If this was a hangover, he’d never drink again.

Dread flooded his heart. This agony was not the result of a debauch. His head throbbed. The pain emanated from the top of his skull. He tried to sit up, but his body decided to vomit instead.

He lay back hearing a man groaning. Was someone else in this darkness with him? They kept on groaning. He wished they’d stop it, he wasn’t feeling well. After what seemed like an aeon, he realised that it was him.

Light blossomed in the empty darkness. A figure appeared silhouetted in the light. It crouched down beside him. He felt a cool, hard hand on his brow.

‘Sorry about this, sir.’

‘Junius Italicus?’ Flaminius said. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m afraid I hit you, sir,’ the centurion explained. ‘Your presence is requested by her imperial majesty. Let me help you to your feet, sir.’

As Flaminius rose, feeling very fragile, the thought flashed through his mind. Junius Italicus was a traitor, Junius Italicus was one of them. He’d always known it. But the certainty was as painful as the dent in his skull.

‘Am I summoned to trial, centurion?’ he asked.

‘Not yet,’ Junius Italicus told him. ‘Just a preliminary hearing. Under the rose.’

Meaning it would be in secret, not public. Did they hope to do a deal with him? Were they afraid to face public trial, where he might make incriminating accusations? It was possible he could find some way to turn this to his advantage.

But they’d already tried to kill him more than once, why would they stop now? Maybe it was because the emperor was supposed to be in the neighbourhood. They might be able to get away with murder while the cat was away, but now Hadrian was back, they’d have to resort to legal proceedings.

The centurion and two other Praetorians half carried, half dragged him out into the blazing light of afternoon. He saw that he had come out into the main atrium of the palace. Gathered amongst the plants and fountains were several people who were familiar to Flaminius.

Sitting upon a high backed chair was the empress. Septicius Clarus stood a little behind her and to her right, dressed in full uniform. Sitting or standing nearby were Erichtho, Ursus Servianus, and the imperial secretary Suetonius Tranquillus. All watched in silence as Flaminius was dragged before them by the Praetorians.

‘Prisoner and escort, reporting for duty!’ Junius Italicus saluted the empress and the prefect.

The empress thanked him, and the guards flanked Flaminius as he stood unsteadily before her.

‘You stand accused of murdering my handmaiden Medea with poison,’ she told Flaminius. ‘You did this in front of numerous witnesses, several of whom are gathered here before us. You are also suspected of murdering your former chief centurion, Messalus. You will be tried and sentenced by your superior officer, Septicius Clarus, when a trial can be arranged. For the moment, however, I wish to speak with you on the subject. If you are willing to plead guilty on all charges, I can promise you that your sentence will be merciful.’

‘You’re accusing me of murder,’ said Flaminius bitterly. ‘If I plead guilty to that, I’ll be executed. How can a sentence of death be merciful?’

Septicius Clarus growled, ‘You young idiot. Your death will be merciful, that’s what ma’am is saying. Unless you refuse to plead guilty, in which case, depend upon it, you will be found guilty of poisoning the empress’ handmaiden, even if not for killing Messalus. And should you plead not guilty, I personally will ensure that you are thrown to the beasts in the Colosseum at the Games. Do you want to be torn apart? Or do you want the death befitting an officer of the Praetorian Guard? Everyone here will testify as eye witnesses to the handmaiden’s murder. Erichtho can also give evidence that the girl was poisoned. Plead guilty, and it will all be over quickly.’

‘So quickly that I won’t be able to embarrass you in public court?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I don’t think the Roman people will be pleased to hear that you, Septicius Clarus, are the lover of her imperial majesty, or that you have conspired with an ambitious senator to murder the emperor when he returns, then take over the state with the aid of the Praetorians.’

Septicius Clarus laughed uneasily. ‘The Roman people won’t believe your lies,’ he said, ‘and nor will the emperor if he returns before the trial.’

‘You hope he won’t,’ Flaminius said. ‘You don’t want him to hear what you’ve been planning. But how will you scrape together a donative to pay the Guard when your tame senator becomes emperor by your hand? Oh, of course, the Praetorians’ very own wages, stolen while being brought to the camp. Where are they now? And what will you do once you’ve paid the donative? How will you raise funds to pay the Praetorians in future? You know what happens if the Guard doesn’t get paid.’

Erichtho looked at the others.

‘What is the tribune talking about?’ She was bewildered. ‘I saw the handmaiden Medea poisoned by him, I saw it with my own eyes. I have agreed to testify in court. But what is this about a plot against the emperor? What is he accusing the prefect of?’

‘He’s obsessed by the idea,’ the empress said dismissively. ‘Ignore his ranting. There is no truth to it. There is no conspiracy against my husband.’

‘You’re very sure of that, ma’am,’ said Flaminius. ‘Anyone would think that someone as innocent as you would have no idea if there was or wasn’t a conspiracy. But since you are the prefect’s lover, you can hardly be ignorant.’

A gasp came from the assembled people. ‘You go too far, tribune!’ the empress cried.

‘I’ll go further, ma’am,’ Flaminius told her. ‘You conspired with your lover against your own husband. In the first place, the plan was that Rufinus Crassus would murder the emperor on his birthday, while Falco, governor of Britain, achieved a staged victory over the Caledonians. When word of the emperor’s death reached the province, his agents amongst the legions would incite them to proclaim their victorious governor as Hadrian’s successor, after which point they would march south and seize Rome. The empire would be plunged into civil war of the kind that broke out after Nero’s death, but you were willing to gamble on victory. After all, Trajan had become emperor under similar circumstances.

‘But that plot was discovered, by myself and my colleague Julius Probus. The staged victory over the Caledonians became a genuine battle, and in that battle the Ninth Legion was massacred. At the same time, I had come south down the roads of the empires with the haste that is possible for an imperial agent, accompanied by loyal Britons. At the last moment, I managed to stop Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt. He was imprisoned awaiting trial. That much was public knowledge, more or less. What happened afterwards only became clear to me recently. Some of it with your help, ma’am.’

‘I?’ The empress glanced back in shock at Septicius Clarus. ‘I gave you no help. This is a tissue of lies.’

Flaminius smiled grimly. ‘You said that the prefect ordered Rufinus Crassus’ death. I knew this must be true, but hearing it from your lips made me realise that you, ma’am, must be implicated. When Rufinus Crassus was reported to have died—from a conveniently sudden distemper—nobody knew that he had been killed by Centurion Messalus, the Praetorian who supposedly found the body, and at the direct orders of Septicius Clarus. And who gave the prefect his orders, but his imperial lover? The emperor’s neglected wife. You, ma’am.’

She shook her head. ‘You know nothing,’ she said. ‘It was you who killed Centurion Messalus. Messalus killed no one.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘It’s you who knows nothing, ma’am, if you believe that. Centurion Messalus was an assassin. At the orders of the former prefect, Attianus, he murdered one of Hadrian’s rivals when your husband had assumed the role of Trajan’s successor—whether he did so with his predecessor’s blessing, as he claimed; or not, as many of the senators claimed, I don’t know yet. But Centurion Messalus admitted to me that he was the killer of Senator Nigrinus. And shortly afterwards he was killed.’

‘I heard you talking to him,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘You were pumping him for information in the officers’ mess. I was already keeping my eye on you. We knew that you were an agent of the Commissary.’

Flaminius stared at him. ‘You knew?’ he said. ‘You knew all along?’

‘Of course we did,’ said the empress haughtily. ‘We knew that you had to be dealt with. The prefect was all for having you murdered. I believe he made the attempt on one or two occasions, but I told him that it was better to let you run your own sweet way, so we could learn what you could find out. Then we would know how watertight our conspiracy was. Centurion Probus had to be removed, of course; he was getting much too close, but your feeble attempts have provided us with much amusement. In the end, however, even I agreed that you had to die. So Medea agreed to poison you.’

‘But how did you persuade her?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘I thought… she and I were lovers, once. That innocent, lovely girl. How could you turn her into a poisoner?’

The empress smiled at his distress.

‘She was not completely new to the game,’ she said. ‘Innocent? Hardly.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Flaminius demanded. Realisation struck him. ‘It was her—it was her who murdered Messalus! Wasn’t it? That was why she was late for her meeting with me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘She must have been in Messalus’ chamber. She slipped the poison into his wine when he wasn’t looking.’

‘I gave it to her,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘I kept Messalus talking while she entered his chamber and poisoned the wine—with the cantharadin you had obtained from Erichtho.’ The Marsian woman gasped at this. Septicius Clarus went on. ‘Then I sent her to find you, or your body. We had hoped to kill you.’

‘I was opposed to the idea,’ the empress protested. ‘Two deaths in one night would be too many, which would be too suspicious, and suspicion was the last thing we wanted while we were planning the new phase of our little conspiracy.’

‘But we agreed that you needed to be dealt with,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘We didn’t want a commissary agent getting in our way.’

‘How did you know that I worked for the Commissary?’

‘Medea told us, of course,’ the empress said.

‘She betrayed me! But why?’

‘Need you ask?’ The empress laughed. ‘She told me the whole story when you arrived. I’ll admit it took some persuasion to get the truth from the little bitch. But when I found out what had happened between you two in the past, I saw my opportunity and seized it.’

‘The whole story?’ Flaminius asked.

‘How you seduced her behind her master’s back,’ the empress said. ‘How callously you used her and then abandoned her, how her master beat her and finally cast her out. If I had not been willing to take her on, who knows what would have happened to her. She loved you, and you betrayed her.’

Flaminius’ face went white. It was true, he had treated her badly. But it had all been necessary, all part of foiling Falco’s plot and saving the emperor—an emperor who was a murderer himself, it transpired. And yet it had all been for nothing. The plot continued in a new guise. ‘You used that knowledge to manipulate her?’

‘She reported back to us everything you told her,’ Septicius Clarus said. ‘I must admit that she was difficult at times. In the end she paid the price, when you switched those goblets.’

‘So you admit that she was trying to poison me?’

‘But it was you,’ the empress said, ‘who poisoned her. And we want this kept quiet. If you plead guilty, we will ensure that your death is an easy one.’

Erichtho had been pacing up and down throughout this last interchange. At this point she broke in. ‘I knew nothing of this! I’m a perfumer, with some medical knowledge—not a poisoner! I’m horrified—sickened—to learn how you’ve abused my expertise.’

Suetonius Tranquillus also spoke.

‘Please don’t be naïve,’ he told her firmly. ‘Ma’am knows what she’s doing. All this is for the good of Rome, and the Republic.’

‘You call Erichtho naive,’ Flaminius said, ‘and yet it’s through your own naivety, imperial secretary, that you have been dragged into this—not to mention the way you’ve been manipulated by the empress ever since she became your lover.’

‘What’s this?’ Septicius Clarus demanded, rounding on the empress. ‘You said you had no regard for what you called “this ink stained librarian”.’ He turned to Suetonius Tranquillus appealingly. ‘Old friend, how could you do this to me?’

‘How could you do this to your emperor?’ Flaminius asked quietly.

Suetonius Tranquillus glared at the empress. ‘Ink stained librarian? You were interested in my researches! You listened to all my histories avidly.’

The empress stifled a yawn. ‘I took some interest in them,’ she admitted. ‘They’re really quite lurid. You’ve made yourself quite the expert on the murderous antics of my husband’s predecessors. All that gratuitous violence…’

‘It’s artistically justified!’ Suetonius Tranquillus insisted. ‘I included that level of detail to show how much better the Republic was than Rome under the Twelve Caesars! Gratuitous indeed…’

‘Indeed, it’s compelling,’ she told him, ‘if a little long winded at times. But I came to value for your knowledge…of murder. We knew all along that it would be necessary to remove a few inconvenient people. My husband began his reign in blood and murder. Well, a little murder would be necessary to oust him.’

‘I don’t understand why you want to depose him,’ Erichtho said. ‘Surely you’ve prospered from being the emperor’s wife.’

‘Your expertise also proved valuable to the cause,’ the empress told her, ‘but beyond your perfumes and medicines you know very little. My husband married me for ambition, because I was the ward of the Emperor Trajan. He hoped to secure the succession by marrying me. After the wedding he neglected me shamefully, and when he learnt that Trajan had no intention of making him emperor, he had to use dreadful methods to ensure he remained in power, death squads and the like. And now he maintains himself in power by employing common spies like this corrupt tribune, who used and abused my handmaiden.

‘Hadrian no longer has need of me. Even in the early days of our marriage he would abandon me to run after boys and other men’s wives, the degenerate. All I have learnt from my time with Hadrian is to despise the Rome of today and to yearn for that time of piety and simplicity that existed before the Caesars.’

‘You despised it so much,’ Suetonius Tranquillus observed, ‘yet you have aped its worst excesses!’

‘We will tear down the world that Caesar made,’ the empress announced, ‘and replace it with the Republic of old. All this foolishness began with those demagogues who preyed upon the discontents of the plebs, encouraging them to rise up against their patrician superiors. We will return to a world where the senate rules wisely over the people, not a single tyrant bolstered up by the legions.’

‘As long as Rome rules the known world,’ Flaminius said quietly, ‘your dream can never come true. I’ve learnt something about history in recent days, and one thing I know is this; the Republic collapsed because it was only designed to rule a single city; perhaps it was able to rule the whole of Italy, but not the world. Rome, under the emperor, rules the world, apart from a few barbarian nations like the Caledonians and the Parthians. That takes strength tempered by wisdom, and that’s what a good emperor like Hadrian gives us. If he has been forced to be ruthless in the past, or to employ spies in the present, it’s all worthwhile if he’s to maintain the Roman peace for as long as possible.

‘I’ve been on the frontiers, and I’ve seen the barbarians. They are itching to bring Rome crashing down. If they do, it will result in a dark age, an age of chaos. Right now, the emperor is strengthening the borders of the empire, but Rome will fall from within if we are not united. Your petty ambitions and dreams of a Golden Age are nothing but sentimentality.’

‘As a historian,’ Suetonius Tranquillus said, ‘today means nothing to me, nothing but vulgarity and superstition. I see only a glorious past. But to historians of the future today could seem to be as much of a Golden Age as the legendary reign of Saturn.’

‘You’re not a fool,’ Septicius Clarus told the secretary. ‘Don’t let yourself be swayed by the words of this beardless boy. The Empire is corrupt. Properly guided, we’ll ensure it regains its magnificence.’

‘Corrupt,’ Suetonius Tranquillus mused. ‘It seems to me that you should know all about corruption. You, who call yourself my friend, who have secretly seduced the woman I love.’

The empress laughed shrilly. ‘I never loved you,’ she told him, sneering. ‘I used you for my own ends, just as the tribune here used the Greek girl.’

‘So you’re no better than the people you profess to despise,’ Suetonius Tranquillus said. ‘You murder, you betray… You represent the true spirit of the age; not the old days of the Republic but this latter age of murderous, lustful, despotic emperors.’

Erichtho gazed round the room. ‘My people are only Roman on sufferance,’ she said. ‘The lives they lead are much those of the barbarians. Powerless and downtrodden, they wander the hills in small bands, selling their skills for what they can. They squabble, they steal, they lust after each other’s wives… But squalid as their existence is, and I’m forever grateful to Minerva Medica that I no longer live alongside them, I never saw such decadence amongst them as I have witnessed in this Villa.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Out on the frontier,’ he said, ‘the life is simpler, more violent and yet less prone to intrigue and corruption. We are weakening the Britons with our own way of life, with bathhouses and markets and luxuries. And yet, I would rather live in a house with a hypocaust than in a Briton’s mud hut. Civilisation had its advantages.’

‘Advantages you will soon be doing without,’ the empress said. ‘I asked you to investigate the murder, and now you have learned the truth. The conspiracy. What do you say now?’

‘At first,’ Flaminius said, ‘when I heard it suggested that Rufinus Crassus had been poisoned, my natural assumption was that Erichtho was involved in some way. But when I spoke with my colleague Probus, he questioned how she could have been able to get access to the senator when he was under armed guard. He said that the person most able to kill Rufinus Crassus was the guard who reported him dead. Realising that he was now my chief centurion, I spoke to him, sounded him out. I learnt that he was, as I had already heard, a professional killer. Not just a soldier who killed in the field of battle, but an assassin, who murdered for political reasons. He was on the verge of admitting to Rufinus Crassus’ murder, I’m sure, when the Praetorian Prefect interrupted us.

‘I hoped to bring up the subject at another time. Then I received the message from Medea, asking to meet. She had already shared information with me, and at that point I had no reason to suspect she was a double agent. When I went to the meeting place, of course, she was not there, and I was attacked myself.’

‘That was not my idea,’ said the empress hastily. ‘Medea was given the job of poisoning the centurion, once we knew that he was likely to betray us. Removing you as well would have looked suspicious; I preferred to implicate you in your centurion’s murder. When I heard that the plan was to murder you, I felt afraid. After Medea reported the murder, I sent her to rescue you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Flaminius said ironically. ‘And then, of course, I was accused of murder as you had planned. Luckily, I had an alibi. That must have annoyed you.’

‘No matter,’ said the empress. ‘The plan was changed. Here was a chance to test our security. Unfortunately, you called in your more astute colleague, Probus. He got too close to the truth, dangerously close, and I had to have him taken off the case. You, however, went blundering on, making more and more of a fool of yourself, unaware that the girl you trusted was working for me.’

‘I began to suspect something,’ Flaminius said. ‘Medea became evasive. I learnt that you had spoken to her about me, and so I put it down to that. Then there was another attempt on my life…’

‘Again, not my doing,’ the empress said. ‘I was content to let you run and run until you found out the truth, if you were capable of it—then we would deal with you.’

‘But of course, I got closer to the truth when I learnt of the manoeuvres the Praetorians had planned for the middle of the night. And then we found evidence that Messalus had been involved in the plans for a raid on the Praetorians’ wage train. The plot began to thicken. I infiltrated the manoeuvres and learnt that a senator was “taking the place” of the emperor. Then the wages were stolen despite all our attempts, so we knew that someone in the Commissary must be a traitor as well.’

He turned to Centurion Junius Italicus. ‘Or some onewho spends a lot of time with me. Someone who’s been listening at doors.’

The centurion shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, with a bleak smile. ‘Not me. Look elsewhere for your traitor.’

Flaminius dismissed his protestations with a sneer. He went on, gazing round the atrium. ‘You know, I think all of you had something to do with Messalus’ death. Not to mention Medea’s death.

‘I don’t think all of you were directly connected,’ he added, as Erichtho opened her mouth. ‘But without your poisons,’ he told her, ‘and without your knowledge,’ he told Suetonius Tranquillus, ‘neither her imperial majesty nor the Praetorian Prefect would have been able to perpetrate their crimes.’

‘What about Rufinus Crassus?’ Erichtho asked.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘It seems that it was with poison stolen from your pharmacopeia,’ he told her, ‘that Messalus murdered Rufinus Crassus.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s dead and burned now. I can’t be certain.’ He looked at Septicius Clarus. ‘Perhaps you could help? It was your idea, wasn’t it?’

Septicius Clarus scowled. ‘I told Messalus to kill him. I told him to make sure he left no marks, but I left it up to him how he dealt with the senator. You’re wrong, though, tribune.’

‘I am?’ Flaminius said. ‘How am I wrong?’

‘I didn’t give the order,’ the Praetorian Prefect said. ‘It was ma’am who told me what must happen.’

Flaminius turned to the empress.

‘So were you the one who decided that Rufinus Crassus must die before he betrayed your little conspiracy?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you didn’t want a chance of your husband knowing that you were plotting against him. That would have affected your comfortable position in society.’

She shrugged. ‘It certainly would have done,’ she admitted. ‘If my husband had learnt that I was plotting against him, I should think he would have exiled me to an island in the Black Sea—at the very least. He could even have told one of his Praetorians to murder me.’ She shrugged again. ‘The imperial secretary tells me that Emperor Nero kicked his wife to death. My husband has much in common with Nero. This inexplicable love for the Greeks, for example. But no.’ She shook her head. ‘I merely passed the order on to Septicius Clarus, who I knew would do everything I said. He’s devoted to me, you know.’

Flaminius was confused.

‘If you just passed on the order,’ he said, ‘who gave it to you?’ His eyes widened. ‘The senator I saw in the Roman Forum. It was dark. I couldn’t make out his face in the torchlight… But…’ He turned suddenly.

‘You’ve been very quiet, senator,’ he said, addressing Ursus Servianus.

The old man rose from his couch. He smiled humourlessly.

‘I thought you would find out the truth in the end,’ he said. ‘That was why I agreed you should be killed. You should thank Sabina here. She was the one who wanted to preserve your life. I think she may still hold a torch for you.’ He stroked the empress’ cheek and she pulled herself away irritably. ‘She gets very bored,’ he said, ‘married to that pederast, my brother in law.’

‘You!’ Flaminius said. ‘You intend to make yourself emperor!’

‘I shall make myself emperor,’ Ursus Servianus confirmed. ‘It was I who Trajan nominated, not that young upstart Hadrian! He seduced Trajan’s wife and persuaded her to put his name forward, and even then Trajan turned him down.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that,’ he said. ‘Why would Trajan risk the empire making an old man like you his successor? Hadrian’s not a youth, but he’s got life in him yet. You’re decrepit, senator. Even with the whole Praetorian Guard at your back, bribed with gold that should be theirs anyway, will you gain the respect of the legions?’

‘The legions will do as they’re told,’ Ursus Servianus growled.

‘And the Parthians?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Even now those barbarians are making trouble in the East, and they’re still powerful after Trajan defeated them; Hadrian retreated before them. Will you defeat them?’

‘I’ll drive them before me!’ Ursus Servianus bellowed. ‘I’ll drive them into the sunrise like Alexander drove Darius! I’ll…’ He broke off in a fit of coughing, and sat down weakly on another couch, clutching at his chest.

‘And this is the man who led your conspiracy,’ Flaminius said, gesturing to Septicius Clarus and the empress. ‘Here is the man who wants to cross from Europe to Asia, and who cannot even cross from one couch to another without losing his balance. He isn’t half the man Hadrian is.’

‘Trajan wanted him as his successor,’ the empress insisted, ‘not Hadrian. He despised Hadrian. You young fool, what do you know? You’re nothing but a tribune.’

Recovering from his coughing, Ursus Servianus rose and put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Don’t lower yourself, my dear,’ he wheezed. ‘You’re right, the lad knows nothing. I said we should kill him all along.’

‘But all our attempts to kill him have failed,’ Septicius Clarus said.

Ursus Servianus rounded on him. ‘It’s all over now. We’re ready, poised to take the emperor’s life when he arrives, to seize the Forum with the Guard, and for me to assume the purple as is my right. As should have happened when Trajan died.’

He glowered at Flaminius, and flung a hand in the tribune’s direction. ‘Kill him, prefect,’ he said.

Septicius Clarus brandished his sword. He advanced on Flaminius. Flaminius turned to run but Junius Italicus and the Praetorians were there. He turned back.

‘Sir,’ said Junius Italicus respectfully, addressing the prefect. ‘I think that would be unwise.’

Flaminius stared at him in disbelief. So did Septicius Clarus. ‘Who are you to advise me, centurion?’ the prefect demanded.

Junius Italicus lifted a hand for silence.

In the distance, they heard the blowing of horns and the far off thundering of hoofs. Even as they did so, marching feet were heard outside.

Armoured figures filed into the atrium. Flaminius recognised one of them as Probus. With him was a bearded man wearing a purple cloak.

—21—

Some time had passed. Flaminius sat in his office in the barracks of the Villa. Probus was on the other side of the desk, sitting back easily and grinning as if he had achieved something remarkable.

‘I suppose you think you’re clever,’ Flaminius said sourly. ‘By your own account, all you did was to petition the emperor when he entered the city. When he heard of murder in the Villa, robbery of pay, and mysterious midnight manoeuvres, he was bound to act.’

‘There was more to it than that,’ Probus said. ‘The captive Horse Guards took their time about coming clean, but in the end they told me everything they knew, which filled in the gaps left after I deciphered those notes we found in Septicius Clarus’ office. Not only that Septicius Clarus had put them up to making an attempted robbery on the wages train, but also that Cassius Nero was in collusion with the other conspirators, that he had ensured that our attempts to stop the robbery failed.’

‘And what did the emperor think of it all?’

Flaminius had only seen Hadrian for a few minutes when the emperor had entered the Villa with Probus at his side and a force of loyal Horse Guards at his back. Everyone else in the room had been led away for questioning with the exception of the empress, who Hadrian had taken into his own personal custody. Right now, Flaminius himself was waiting for a debriefing from the emperor.

Probus shook his head. ‘He wasn’t impressed, I have to say,’ he replied. ‘And he seemed annoyed that I had taken up the investigation without any consultation with his imperial self. I explained that there had been no time for that, what with his expedition to the North.’

Flaminius grunted. ‘I should think he’d have been even less impressed,’ he said, ‘if he’d got back to Rome to find a mutinous Guard, murderous assassins, and his old rival Ursus Servianus attempting to oust him.’

‘Exactly my point,’ Probus said, ‘although I chose to frame it a bit more diplomatically. His imperial majesty didn’t comment. Of course, at that point I had no idea that his wife was involved. You’d neglected to mention that, tribune.’

‘I wasn’t sure about it myself,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘The most we had to go on was the fact that Rufinus Crassus had been murdered, no doubt to stop him betraying his fellow conspirators; and that his murderer, Messalus, was also murdered just as he was on the brink of telling me the truth. I had no idea that the second murder had been carried out by…’

Probus had already heard about Medea. Gruffly, looking uncomfortable, he reached out and patted Flaminius on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

Flaminius was a Roman, and Romans are stoic by nature, whether they subscribe to that school of philosophy or not. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of Probus’ words, heedless of the aching void within himself. Nothing comes from nothing, and the nothingness he felt within sprang from the nothingness that was Medea… or something like that. He had trouble thinking straight.

Philosophy would offer no consolation here. Medea’s death was bad enough, but the fact that he had given her the poison draught—the fact that she had intended the poison for him—the fact that she had hated him so much that the empress had been able to persuade her to attempt his murder…

He didn’t know what to say either.

‘Well, anyway,’ Probus went on, ‘the emperor’s not very happy about what’s been going on while he was away. He wants to speak to me about it, once he’s worked out what to do with the conspirators. Oh, and, er… I think he wants to speak to you, too.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come,’ Flaminius directed.

Junius Italicus poked his head round the door.

‘Emperor’s compliments,’ he said, saluting smartly, ‘and would Commissary Centurion Probus present himself for debriefing in the main atrium, please?’

Heavily, Probus lifted himself to his feet. He grimaced at Flaminius. ‘Looks like this is it,’ he said. He crossed to the door. ‘It’s alright, centurion,’ he told Junius Italicus, ‘I know the way.’

Junius Italicus stepped aside to let Probus pass. Then he glanced in at Flaminius, brooding at his desk.

‘Was there anything, sir?’ he asked.

Flaminius looked up. His eyes narrowed. ‘Take a seat, centurion,’ he directed.

Junius Italicus entered, and sat down smartly in the place Probus had just vacated.

‘You’ve been with the emperor?’ Flaminius asked.

The centurion nodded. ‘Yes sir.’

Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘What was he like? Angry?’

Junius Italicus shrugged. ‘He didn’t show any emotion, sir, you know what he’s like. I think it’s this Greek philosophy he studies.’

Flaminius leant back in his chair.

‘You could have told me you were also working for Probus,’ he said.

‘Yessir,’ said the centurion. ‘Except that would have been against orders. Orders were, not to make contact with any other agent at any point, but to keep an eye on you at all times. It was me, as I’m sure you guessed, who helped you fight off those ambushers in the alley.’

So Probus had known about the ambush. Ruefully, Flaminius rubbed at the bruise on his forehead. ‘You certainly did keep an eye on me,’ he said acidly, reminding himself to thank Probus for his choice of agent. ‘Right up to the end.’

‘Apologies, sir,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘but there wasn’t much I could do under the circumstances. I did my best to protect you, but when I was given an order by the Praetorian Prefect, I had to preserve my cover… Well, I did rescue you from his sword, sir. The Prefect wanted to kill you there and then. After I’d stunned you, I respectfully reminded him that the due process of law had to be seen to be adhered to.’

‘And do you think it will be?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Now, I mean? Everything I’ve heard about the emperor over the last few days suggests he’s the kind of tyrant Suetonius Tranquillus writes about, having inconvenient senators assassinated out of hand… I thought he was a good man. I thought the empire was a good place, a place worth fighting for. But now…?’

Junius Italicus laughed. When Flaminius scowled at him, his face returned to its usual wooden immobility. ‘With respect, sir, you’ve been misinformed. On the occasion to which you’re referring, his imperial majesty received word from the former prefect, Attianus, of potential plots by his rivals. Having only just succeeded Trajan, Hadrian sent a message telling Attianus to deal with them. Attianus interpreted this in the worst possible way, giving orders to Messalus and his fellow assassins to murder Nigrinus and the others. When Hadrian learnt what happened, he was horrified. He had Attianus dismissed on his return to Rome, although he kept the assassins on the payroll.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Flaminius asked.

Junius Italicus grinned. ‘I was one of them,’ he said. ‘It was me who killed Lusius Quietus.’

Flaminius was called for a quarter of an hour later. He found the Emperor Hadrian standing in the middle of the atrium, his visionary gaze on the middle distance. Praetorian Prefect Marcius Turbo was at his side, and two more Praetorians stood discreetly a few yards away.

Apprehensively, Flaminius saluted the most powerful man in the empire.

‘Hail Caesar,’ he said, and his voice cracked with nervousness.

‘Tribune Flaminius, isn’t it?’ said Hadrian, running elegant fingers through a heavy beard. ‘Yes, I remember you from last year. Good fellow. This is just an informal chat, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.’

The emperor wore a breastplate ornamented with elegant curlicues and flourishes that would make it distinctly impractical in the field. At his side hung a sword with an equally richly decorated hilt. He wore a short purple cloak and on his brow was a laurel wreath. These last accoutrements alone hinted that he ruled the greatest empire the world had ever seen.

‘Yes, your imperial majesty,’ said Flaminius.

Hadrian tutted and shook his head. ‘I told you, this is an informal chat. “Sir” will do quite well.’ He began walking through the garden.

‘I was speaking to your colleague earlier,’ he went on. Flaminius exchanged a glance with the Praetorians and hurried after the emperor.

Hadrian’s voice had the curious intonation of a Spaniard, and it seemed odd that a man of provincial birth should wield so much power. The Praetorians who accompanied him, however, were all of Italian stock; it was a compulsory prerequisite for the service.

‘I mean Centurion Probus, of course,’ the emperor added as Flaminius caught up. ‘You both have done sterling work, sterling work. You exceeded your authority, of course, but I’ll get to that presently. No, I’m grateful to you for rooting out this nest of traitors. To think that my wife…!’ He checked himself. ‘I understand that you have experienced losses of your own in your zealous attempts to guard my person.’

‘Losses, sir?’ Flaminius said. ‘Oh. Medea.’

‘And your chief centurion, Messalus,’ the emperor added with a nod. ‘It must have been a blow to lose a trusted comrade. Not to mention to be betrayed by someone who, I understand, was close to you.’ His face grew dark. ‘I too have experienced betrayal at the hands of a loved one.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps not as close as you were to this Greek dancing girl, in some ways, but you can’t remain married to someone for as long as I have been to Vibia—she was a child when I married her, and I little more than a youth—without developing some affection for her. Even if I have called her harridan in private moments.’

Flaminius was embarrassed.

Hadrian paused for a moment. ‘“Caesar’s wife,”’ he quoted, ‘“must be above suspicion.” I should have her put away. Any slighted husband of the era with which Vibia and her coterie are so obsessed would do more; put his wife to death, I’ve no doubt. But we don’t live in such righteous days. She’ll remain out of public life in future, and of course I’m dismissing Suetonius Tranquillus and Septicius Clarus from my service.’

He noticed Flaminius’ expression and started walking again. ‘You think it a mild judgement? This is a new empire that I rule; what matters most is unity. I have committed myself to shoring up the defences as I have been doing in Britain, and as I intend to do in the East, with the Parthians. I also intend to travel widely about this world of mine, a latter day Ulysses, and really get to know my people. I want my reign to be remembered as a happy one, of peace and prosperity. I do not want to be remembered for putting my wife to death, or my subordinates for that matter.’

Flaminius kept his opinions to himself. ‘What about Ursus Servianus?’ he asked.

Hadrian looked at him, as if in surprise. ‘Ah, yes, my seditious brother in law,’ he murmured. ‘Again, I intend to be merciful. He worked against me in the past, before I had the honour of succeeding to the purple, but I have spoken with him. Proscription, treason trials, all these things are matters of the past, the dark days of Domitian and Tiberius and Sulla. I already have an unearned reputation for seizing power unlawfully, and for murdering my rivals. I do not wish to give my enemies in the senate more reason to curse my name. They will find any excuse.’

‘So it’s forgiveness all round?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘Sir,’ he added, with a scowl.

Hadrian halted and looked back at him. ‘Ah, well,’ he said delicately. ‘For the conspirators? Yes, although their careers will be at an end, and they will be banished from public life until I feel they have learnt their lessons. Except Ursus Servianus, of course. He will not be banished. His name will never be connected with this plot.

‘He doesn’t believe this naïve nostalgic claptrap about a return to the Republic! Rome’s empire is too large to be run by a senate, and he knows it. It needs a single man, an ambitious man; one who knows how to be ruthless when necessary. It’s a heavy burden for any man, but someone must do it, someone able. Despite his age, in the empire as it stands I can think of no man better suited to succeed me.’

Flaminius was shocked. Then good luck to you, Rome, he thought. Good luck! If the seditious Julius Ursus Servianus made the best successor for Hadrian, the city would need all the luck it could muster.

‘However,’ the emperor added, ‘there’s another matter to which I wish to turn my attention.

‘The Commissary began to concern itself with matters of internal security during the days of Domitian,’ he went on, ‘that suspicious tyrant who trusted no one. After the conspiracy that resulted in his death, ironically giving justification for his suspicions, the Commissary continued to follow Domitian’s guidelines, providing the emperors who succeeded him with reports on the loyalty of important figures in the empire. In short, they were spies.

‘This is regrettable. I would prefer to rule an empire that does not require spies. However, some elements of society, many of them in the highest positions, are intractable. Since they are prone to plots and conspiracies themselves, they cannot believe that their emperor is not the same. As a result, they need to be watched; their plots require counterplots. So it is necessary to employ spies such as yourself, although personally I find it distasteful.’

He began to walk again, continuing his circuit of the atrium. Frowning, Flaminius hurried to keep up with him as his sandals clicked neatly through the gravel.

‘However,’ the emperor continued, speaking like a marketplace philosopher formulating a syllogism that he knew would earn him a standing ovation, ‘it is imperative that such spies learn not to get above themselves. They must be trustworthy and obedient—devoted to the empire, and to myself as its absolute leader—incorruptible, unlike your former Chief—but at the same time, not overenthusiastic mavericks like Centurion Julius Probus. You know and I know what devastation has resulted previously from your colleague’s machinations[21]. This cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘Probus is a good man.’ Flaminius surprised himself by leaping to his comrade’s defence.

Hadrian sighed. ‘A good man, indeed, but I think it a mistake for him to be allowed such latitude. He needs something to give him a sense of discipline.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius.

It sounded like Probus was going to be kept on. But what about Flaminius himself? Would he remain in Rome? There was nothing left for him here, now that Medea was dead.

‘And as for you,’ Hadrian went on, in answer to his unspoken question, ‘your recent brushes with military law have made it inappropriate for you to continue as a Praetorian officer. It isn’t good for discipline, you know, for a cohort to be commanded by a man who has been arrested on three separate occasions within a few days.’

‘But…’ Flaminius began. Hadrian raised a hand, and nodded slightly.

‘Those arrests resulted from the scheming of the plotters, I agree. However, it’s the look of the thing. There’s also the fact that the man you chose as chief centurion after Messalus is also a commissary officer. Your cohort will return to camp, while you will be publically dismissed from the Praetorians and provided with work more fitting for your devious nature. The relief cohort is on its way already.’

‘This is my reward for serving you?’ Flaminius asked, but Hadrian wasn’t listening; he had turned to Prefect Marcius Turbo.

‘See that the tribune is escorted from the Villa,’ he told him. The prefect saluted. Abruptly Hadrian strode from the atrium, followed by the two guards.

Marcius Turbo strolled up to Flaminius, a cold smile on his face.

‘Where am I to go?’ Flaminius asked.

‘You’re dismissed the service,’ said Marcius Turbo, ‘but the emperor promised suitable work would be found for you. You’re a talented fellow, evidently, but not the sort an emperor feels comfortable with serving in his Guard. Be grateful! At least your career isn’t at an end, unlike my erstwhile colleague.’

Together they walked towards the exit.

‘Seems to me,’ said Flaminius bitterly, ‘that there isn’t much difference between what’s happened to Probus and I—and to Junius Italicus, from what the emperor was saying—and what’s happened to the conspirators. Too harsh with us, too lenient with them.’

Marcius Turbo grinned. ‘His imperial majesty is a believer in the Golden Mean. Nothing in excess.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘If I was emperor…’ he began.

‘Tribune,’ said the prefect gently but firmly, ‘I fear you’re on the edge of committing high treason. May I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself?’

He halted as they came out into the bright sunlight, turned to face Flaminius and saluted him. ‘Good work, tribune,’ he said approvingly.

Wearily, Flaminius returned the salute, then turned on his heel and marched away down the gravel path. He didn’t look back.

As he reached the drive to the Villa, he heard marching feet. He stepped off the roadway and waited for the Praetorians to march past, heading towards the main palace complex. At the head of the cohort was Aulus Fabricius Cotta.

As soon as the soldiers had passed, Flaminius returned to the road. Leaning against a milestone a short way down the Tiburtine Way, he found Junius Italicus, who was refreshing himself with a swig of water from his canteen. Seeing Flaminius approaching, the centurion stopped drinking, waited his tribune’s arrival, and offered him the water in silence.

Flaminius drank thirstily and gratefully. It was a hot day.

‘So it’s us for a life of bread and circuses is it, sir?’ Junius Italicus asked drily. ‘I grew up in the Subura. Joining the legions was the only option other than living on the bread dole.’ He shrugged. ‘Think I did pretty well, joining the Praetorians and all. but now it’s over.’

‘Come off it, centurion,’ Flaminius said, trying to inject some cheer into his words, ‘we’re still on the Commissary payroll.’

‘Seems we did the worst thing we could have ever done, sir,’ said the centurion; ‘embarrassed his imperial majesty.’

‘He would have been more embarrassed if we hadn’t found out the conspiracy,’ Flaminius said. ‘Embarrassed to death.’

They started walking. No horses for them on this trip. It was a long way to Rome on foot.

Epilogue

Rome, Castra Peregrina

Flaminius parted from Junius Italicus on returning to the city; the centurion had decided to look up his relatives in the Subura. The tribune reported to the Castra Peregrina where two commissary legionaries showed him to the Chief’s office.

‘You!’

Flaminius stared at Probus, who was looking up testily from a sheaf of reports.

‘What are you doing here?’ the tribune added.

Probus sat back. He signalled for the legionaries to leave. Once the sound of their marching feet had died away he turned to Flaminius with a bleak smile.

‘What am I doing here, sir,’ he corrected him.

‘Technically,’ Flaminius pointed out, ‘I outrank you.’ Probus never seemed to remember this little fact.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my promotion?’ the centurion said acidly. ‘I’ve been kicked upstairs.’

‘I got the impression you were going to be sent to rot in an outpost in the African desert,’ Flaminius said. ‘And the emperor’s promoted you?’

Probus scowled. He gestured at the desk. ‘Bah! What can I achieve sitting behind this thing?

‘Sit down,’ he added.

Flaminius sat. ‘You spent the last few days sitting behind a desk,’ he said. ‘That’s where you cracked the code. We’d never have solved this mystery without you sitting behind a desk. Except…’

‘Except?’

‘Except you said you knew who was the mastermind behind the plot,’ Flaminius said accusingly, leaning forward. ‘You said that if we learnt who the murderer was it might lead back to him. But you wouldn’t say who it was. Why not? If I’d known you suspected Ursus Servianus…’

‘If you’d known,’ Probus said testily, ‘you’d probably have arrested him straightaway, you clumsy young goat, and then your cover would have been blown. We needed proof, so I let you find it.’

‘I ran round getting into fights and being locked up while you sat round deciphering the puzzle,’ Flaminius said. ‘And now you’re complaining about sitting behind a desk! You saved the empire from behind a desk.’

‘But not this desk!’ Probus pounded it with his fist. ‘Behind this desk, my work will be no more than glorified administration! You’re lucky, tribune.’

Flaminius felt something cold trickle down his spine. ‘Why d’you say that?’ he asked.

Probus grinned. ‘I know exactly what the emperor has in store for you,’ he said. ‘There’s advantages as well as disadvantages to being in charge of the administration of this outfit, tribune.’

‘What is it?’ Flaminius said urgently.

Probus tapped his large nose. ‘That’s on a need to know basis.’

‘And I need to know,’ Flaminius complained.

‘So you shall,’ Probus said, ‘when the emperor sees fit to have you posted. For the moment, though, all I have to say is this…’

He rose to his feet and held out his hand, ‘I was quite impressed by your work, tribune. Welcome to the team.’

Unspeaking, Flaminius shook the centurion’s hand.

THE STORY CONTINUES IN ‘THE HADRIAN LEGACY.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gavin Chappell has been involved in writing and editing for the last decade. He has written short stories, translations, poetry, novels and non-fiction.

Also a qualified teacher of further education, Gavin taught English and Creative Writing for many years. He has been published by various publishers including Penguin, and is a member of the Society of Authors.

[1] See ‘On Hadrian’s Secret Service.’

[2] York.

[3] Just before midnight.

[4] See ‘On Hadrian’s Secret Service.’

[5] Popular Roman resort on the Bay of Naples.

[6] 69 AD.

[7] Sejanus was the emperor Tiberius’ overambitious Praetorian Prefect, who was killed and his family massacred when he overreached himself.

[8] Translation by J C Rolfe.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Clytemnestra conspired with her lover Aegisthus to murder her husband Agamemnon on the latter’s return from Troy.

[11] Consul (127 BC) and censor Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla.

[12] Translation by JC Rolfe.

[13] 13 April

[14] Rome’s main port; it replaced the better known Ostia.

[15] One of the three main roads within a Roman military camp, along with the Principal Way and the Decuman Way.

[16] Translation by JC Rolfe.

[17] Translation by John Dryden.

[18] 121 BC. The Gracchi were populist politicians who attempted to reform the Roman Republic in favour of the people. The Senate’s violent reaction initiated the series of conflicts that resulted ultimately in the demise of the Republic and the rise of the Caesars.

[19] See ‘On Hadrian’s Secret Service.’

[20] According to the twelve tablets of Roman law.

[21] See ‘On Hadrian’s Secret Service.’