The False Nero was sitting on a stool in his cell. He was eating his dinner. He was not yet formally inducted into the torture programme so he was not being starved. There are rules. A prisoner of Rome is given basic food and drink. It will be horrible, unless he can bribe his guards for better, but he will be kept alive. Well, they want him alive for punishment.

  This man held on his knees a bowl of very thin barley broth. I could smell the garlic from the doorway. The watery fluid looked lukewarm and any barley in it probably had mould. Nevertheless, he was spooning it up with an appetite. He did not understand he might as well not bother. His time was up.

  He had a bale of straw to lie on and a bucket so he would not soil his cell. It was a long way from what he would have known in Parthia. The beds in the east are famously soft. As a tool they could use against Rome, he presumably also rated pillows, scented sheets and helpful girls to tuck him in.

  Once the torturer came on duty, bed and bowl would be removed. That is, if tomorrow’s activity was to be carried out in situ. At the Castra Peregrina they might have a special-operations room. An end-of-life suite. Easy-clean and soundproof. Either way, as our escort told us, at dawn the prisoner would be placed in ‘special measures’.

  I took a good look at him. The False Nero was of slimmish build, medium height, brown-eyed but light-skinned, with middle-Mediterranean features. That is, he could have passed in Rome without seeming exotic. Syria had been tramped through by so many armies in its long history that its people look like most of us.

  This man bore one or two bruises and a great many insect-bite scratches, yet was in reasonable condition. His beard stubble and Neronian sideburns had been hacked short, but his unwashed hair had not been cut for months. The ragged tips still carried dirty traces of old blonding.

  To our disappointment, we were unable to talk with him. He knew only his own language. I did not voice it in the Castra, but for me his lack of Latin and Greek was the first proof he could never have been a serious player as Nero.

  An interpreter was booked, but for next day. Philippus had not thought of this. He said Rubrius spoke several languages, but he had no idea where to find him out of hours. It would be difficult to turn up any of the palace linguists, or to find them sober even if we tracked them down. Dear gods. Our visit was a waste of time.

  The False Nero gazed at us, as if wondering what we would make of this impasse. He had a dull lack of curiosity over what might happen to him. It made me think that whatever was first offered to persuade him to take up his role must have been so substantial in his terms that he no longer cared. His family at home must have been given considerable wealth. He had achieved prosperity for them; his own folk would remember him for generations.

  I wondered what his name was. I hoped his mother was proud of him. I hoped she never had to learn how it was all ending.

  His bearing was not imperial. You could put his stinking body in a purple toga, plonk a wreath on his sour head, let him wave at a crowd from a balcony to avoid the language issue, but nobody would mistake this grubby soul for a twig from the élite family tree of Mark Antony and Augustus.

  As I had always thought, he was a typical Syrian shepherd. If he had ever possessed a harp, someone had taken it away.

  The man was still eating his dinner when we left.

  20

  Philippus made a feeble offer to escort me home. I said Dromo would suffice. It was safer to look like a prostitute with the boy who carried her earnings and might pack a punch than to walk in the streets at night accompanied by an unworldly civil servant whose skills were all too clearly intellectual. His infant slave would never prevent us being mugged.

  At a corner near the Palatine I said goodbye. Once he was out of sight, I turned Dromo by the shoulders; after a few squeaks of protest from him, we went back to the Castra Peregrina. Last time I had been preoccupied with getting past the commander for access to the prisoner; now I took in my surroundings. It was a large, square, forbidding military building, full of barrack blocks, stables, cookhouses, administrative offices and their own specialist sections: armoury, baths, shrine to the Emperor, shrine to some unpleasant soldiering god, cells. I guessed there could be women illegally inside the place, though mainly the soldiers went foraging for pleasure in the local community. The atmosphere was as heavily masculine as anywhere could be.

  Indoors, there were odd smells. Belt-grease and feet. Even so late, the place was noisy, full of loud conversations, soldiers’ banter, odd rattles of metal, a horn very badly played.

  Nearly-Nine-Gongs, the commander, thought he knew why I had come back. Behind him he had a long fighting career in the world’s most hideous places. It gave him a warm feeling. He thought girls should flock to him admiringly.

  I told Dromo to squat in a corner but to stay awake. I told the commander please not to try anything because I was only married two days ago and my husband had been struck by lightning. Intrigued, as I had known he would be, he decided to be kind to me, at least temporarily.

  ‘Let’s pretend I forgot a handkerchief so I’ve come back for it, Titus. Then I’ll tell you why I’m here again.’

  ‘Where’s your palace minder?’

  ‘Gone home for a hot toddy, wetting himself with terror after being in your camp.’

  ‘That’s good! Not you?’ asked Titus, picking his nails clean with the tip of a dagger in a centurionly manner.

  I sat on the tiny stool his clerk must use, folded my arms and gazed at him. I murmured stagily, as if to myself, ‘Now, Albia, can you really trust this man?’

  He gave me his trust-me smile. It was hideous but, having worked with the vigiles for years, I had seen worse. At least he was either sober or could hold tanks of liquor without it affecting him. I reckoned he was abstemious. Well, fairly.

  ‘So why am I here, Titus?’

  ‘Let’s not be formal,’ said Titus. ‘Call me the Princeps Peregrinorum.’

  ‘A prince among strangers, a prince among men.’ Sometimes in my work I had to use grisly flattery. He lapped it up. They always do. I did not fool myself; the man remained extremely dangerous and I was alone in his office with him. I didn’t count Dromo. ‘Princeps, you are a man of experience. You can surely tell that at the palace they have a situation. Listen, how do you feel if I say that what Philippus and I are doing is deeply undercover – and it is for the safety of Rome?’

  He liked a crisis. He was prepared to listen. ‘So what is this secret “situation”?’

  ‘What I am telling you is in strictest confidence. The man you are looking after so tenderly in your cosy cell – you know he is the False Nero. He was transferred to Rome all the way from Parthia because there is something odd about him. It is thought that he was set up to make his false claim − engineered by a traitor at the palace. That’s why I came back tonight without my minder. For all I know, even the man who hired me could be that traitor.’

  The soldier looked at me askance.

  I let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Princeps, that’s exactly the kind of scheme such a villain would use. He might think pretending to hire me would look good and help him escape detection. But I don’t believe it is Philippus. He is too mild-mannered. He hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘Too bloody ambitious,’ corrected the Princeps, showing he was both observant and shrewd.

  ‘But give him his due, he must be bright. He spotted that this prisoner, on his own, was never up to sparking a rebellion, gathering allies, leading a small army across to the Euphrates, persuading the devious Parthians to back him. So Philippus and I wanted a quiet word with your Nero, to persuade him to reveal who was really behind his attempt.’

  ‘You got nowhere?’

  ‘He does not speak Latin.’ I bet the commander knew all along. ‘So tell me,’ I demanded, ‘is it true your troops are drawn from every legion? That includes Syria. If your men are experienced scouts – surely the first criterion to be selected for this high-powered intelligence-gathering unit – then someone must be able to translate whatever the blond bummer in your cell does speak. I am just hoping the right men haven’t all gone out to some bar.’

  He looked at me. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No?’ I shrugged womanfully. ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I have one who knows the lingo. He has gone out to a bar. Of course he has.’

  ‘He is a soldier,’ I agreed. ‘This is Rome. The best bars in the world. I suppose he is now lying in a waiter’s lap, stupendously pie-eyed?’

  The Princeps Peregrinorum gave me a stern look. ‘Don’t think I paid no attention to what you and the palace prawn were up to. This is my camp. I know every spider that moves here. What − two chancers come by night to see a sensitive prisoner without a docket? Slap me in the goolies with a flounder, I can work that out.’

  I managed to look admiring.

  ‘I’d have been in there with my soldier right this minute,’ claimed Nearly-Nine-Gongs. ‘I’d be demanding myself that Nero coughs up his sordid secrets, but we can’t find him. My soldier, that is. Nero is in his cell, sleeping like a babe. I get a report every hour. He can’t sniff without me hearing he’s wiped his nose on his arm.’

  ‘That must keep you busy,’ I sympathised.

  He grinned. ‘Only until tomorrow. Once the torturer comes, he won’t have a moment to himself.’

  He seemed to have taken to me. It’s a knack. My work depends upon it. Half the time, you win them round simply because their lives are boring; my enquiries are the most exciting event that week. Besides, I had been open; he was used to everyone hiding their real motives. I didn’t look down upon him being a soldier; I gave proper respect to his power. Then I told him frankly what I wanted.

  As a result, I wouldn’t say Nearly-Nine-Gongs accepted me, but we had a workable relationship.

  He signalled that our meeting was terminating. He said his soldier translator would roll up at first light. He was rostered to interpret the Nero’s screams of agony; he would get back at the same time as the torturer arrived.

  ‘Sober?’

  ‘If he’s not, you won’t detect it. Or he knows I’ll eat his balls in a flatbread.’

  Titus then made a concession. If I was quick about it, tomorrow morning he would tell the torturer to wait while I tried my best with the False Nero.

  ‘Thank you, sir! I shall bring fish pickle,’ I said.

  He looked uncertain, so I explained: to splash on the flatbread with the soldier’s balls.

  Sweetly, he did not know how to take it, so pretended not to have heard. ‘I shall have to be present, Flavia Albia. In the event of queries, I must be able to say I witnessed everything.’

  ‘Well, thank you again, Princeps. Actually, I would appreciate your input on whatever Nero gives up. If he does tell us who the traitor is, it may be someone rather powerful. That will require a rather delicate arrest.’

  Titus looked interested, seeing an opportunity to acquire his ninth phalera. I noticed he did not demand names. ‘So,’ he said slowly, sounding as if this was where he would ask if I fancied a bunk-up. ‘What made you think I would be willing to let you to talk to him?’

  ‘I think you are loyal. Everyone is loyal to something. Gods, leaders, a woman. Do you have a woman yourself, incidentally? What would she want you to do?’

  He looked as if he had slept with every barmaid from Gaul to Rhaetia, and possibly their brothers, but in what would be his final post, with his large golden handshake and retirement imminent, I bet he had lined up someone civilised to end his days with. I was right: ‘I have a girl. Nice thing. Very intelligent. We never talk about politics.’

  ‘Try it,’ I suggested.

  Two of his troops were assigned to take me and Dromo safely to the Aventine. Or, as the Princeps Peregrinorum confirmed, with barefaced honesty, one soldier to escort me home, another to be my witness if the first assaulted me. Thanking him nicely yet again, I said that was reassuring.

  21

  At home, Dromo claimed to have a latch-lifter. While I was still grinding my teeth that he should possess one but not me, we discovered he had bent his, so it no longer worked. Happily, Graecina had been nosily keeping an ear out for when the mistress returned from gadding; she opened up for us. While she inspected me for signs I had been at an orgy, I told her to call in a locksmith, and make sure a key was made for me.

  Tiberius had been sitting in the dark courtyard, awaiting my return. I could tell he was unhappy. Within moments we were having the first quarrel of our married life.

  I presumed this was about me going out at night, but no. All day, I had completely forgotten that this was the fourth day of September, one before the Nones. This was when the Roman Games began, an extra day added in honour of Julius Caesar, after he was murdered. There was a sacrifice to Jupiter, a procession, then chariot racing in the Circus. Had Tiberius been well, he ought to have attended. Instead, he had sat at home all day, miserably thinking about having to miss his duties.

  As I pointed out, I had been here from time to time; he had never mentioned it and so far he had yet to leave the house. I was very tired or I might not have added unwisely, ‘Mother’s doctor said I must expect unreasonable behaviour. Apparently when men are struck by lightning it is common for their marriages to end in divorce!’

  That hardly helped. After a stand-off, we remained annoyed with each other. We had not been married long enough to have worked out whose role it was to flounce off in a huff.

  Eventually Tiberius humphed and went to bed. Later, I followed and found him pretending to sleep. I crossed the room in darkness. Falling in with him, I wrapped myself around his warm body, which he at least allowed without shaking me off. I was suddenly aware of how frightened I had been at the Castra, and how good it felt to be safe again in our private bedroom with my man’s steady presence.

  A furtive knock announced Galene, bringing warm mulsum, one of her almond slices, a small oil lamp. Finger to lips, telling me not to disturb Tiberius, she picked up my discarded gown, which she took away for washing as if I were still a girl at home. I had been proud of surviving alone as an informer, but I could live this way.

  After the door closed Tiberius relented and sat up with me. I had the drink. We shared the biscuit.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘All right.’ We were friends. ‘The False Nero was a real fake. Fresh from the sheep pen. Spoke no Latin, and no translator obtainable, needless to say. I have to go back at dawn for a quick session.’

  ‘Want me to come?’ Once he would have spoken much more eagerly.

  ‘You don’t need to.’ As an aedile he would have kept Nearly-Nine-Gongs in check, but Tiberius still did not want to face the outside world. The Castra Peregrina would be a bad place for a troubled man to start.

  He shifted against the bedhead fretfully. ‘I must get over this, Albia. I need to be at the Games.’

  ‘Stuff the Games,’ I soothed him. ‘You did enough to set them up. You have three colleagues who can jump on any problems. You stay in, have a nice lie-down when you need it, and let somebody else come and tell you how well it all went.’

  ‘What about you? What if you need me?’

  I tried to sound encouraging. ‘If I do, I shall ask, I promise. At the moment I am cruising through it. The camp commander supplied a set of soldiers to see me home safe tonight; the lovely boys are coming back for me tomorrow morning. Everything will be absolutely fine.’

  I was wrong there.

  We spent a night plagued by crumbs in the bed. Next day I dragged on some clothes and crept downstairs at what would have been cockcrow, had any cockerels in our city survived the stewpot. I had trained my mind to wake me up when I had to work, though today it was hard.

  The boys from Titus appeared promptly outside. To my surprise, these exemplary soldiers had brought me a donkey. It was a deliberate ruse: when I climbed on with my skirts runkling, they could see my bare legs. Graecina and Galene were on hand to wave me off, so they soon rearranged me decently. They vied with one another in cursing the troops, who pretended to look shamefaced. None of them gave a flying phallus, of course.

  I rode down the Aventine, flogged past the Circus Maximus, around the great base of the Temple of Claudius, made it to the camp. The donkey was skittish but I managed not to fall off.

  Nearly-Nine-Gongs stood, legs apart, in his office, shaving − a ceremony he carried out like a sacrifice. He used a ladies’ mirror, incongruously a rather fine silver-backed one in the Etruscan style, plus a razor with which he could have killed pirates. His arm action was fussy, stroking away the stubble with infinite care. He finished by patting on a crocus lotion, using a delicate finger action and lots of it.

  With him, patiently waiting on the clerk’s wooden stool, was the torturer. Standing up in a corner was a clerk. He was a sleepy public slave, who looked resigned to everything. Titus had thoughtfully provided them with bread rolls, though no one offered me any.

  The torturer was an unexpected treat. I had imagined a barrel-chested, boot-faced bruiser, covered with scars and grimacing. This was a nice young man. No doubt soldiers would assist him once he started, but he was a public servant, assigned to the Castra Peregrina, with a stipend, lived at home when not required, came in with his tools when summoned. He looked to be in his twenties, barely into his beard, well-mannered, nicely spoken when he greeted me. Even so, somehow I did not doubt he was skilled. There was a muted confidence about him.

  He came enveloped in a large, clean, waterproofed apron, so no blood would show on him afterwards. From the neat bow in the ties behind his back, I wondered if he had been wrapped in it at home by some loving relative.

  When Titus paused his razor action and introduced us, I exclaimed to the torturer, ‘I bet you don’t tell your mother what your job is!’ She must be happy simply to know her bonny boy had an important position, with an income and work that in our city was guaranteed for life.