Alfius, as was his name, had set down a large holdall, its leather stiffened and darkly creased with age. He kept it close, between his feet, as he sat on the stool. He now kicked this. I noticed he had small feet, shod in well-polished tie-up shoes. The laces were precise and even. At his kick, the bag of tools clanked, but was so heavy it hardly budged. Small gadgets for exquisitely adding pain hung from metal loops on the outside. They were all well-kept and sharp-looking. ‘She thinks I am a plumber.’

  She must be an idiot. A real plumber would have his tunic stuck in his bum-crack and be permanently half-tiddly.

  Once Nearly-Nine-Gongs was satisfied he had a perfect shave, we all went outside. Soldiers unwound themselves from various nooks, then formed up into a camp commander’s escort. This detail cannot have been for protection, for the man himself breathed physical capability. Purse-snatchers must dive into doorways when he walked down a street. However, he never moved without a group to listen to his manly words and admire his actions.

  Also waiting for us was the army scout from Syria who would act as interpreter: a silent man who, as promised, smelt of wine but appeared sober. He was unremarkable physically, but sinister; I would not have liked him counting the tunics on my washing-line to see whether I was keeping a lover.

  The men all looked at me curiously, though in the presence of Titus their scrutiny was subtle. I knew none of them was thinking what an elegant gown I wore and how suitably accessorised it was. They were imagining me without it.

  A chill ran between my shoulder-blades. The Castra seemed no less threatening by daylight. If people jumped you in this haven of past miseries, no one would hear you scream. If you stopped screaming it would be because you had gone beyond caring. Men would fling your lifeless body into the street outside. Passers-by would look away.

  We moved in a subdued group through echoing corridors that I remembered from last night. There was still noise everywhere. I tried to view this as domestic clamour you might hear in any private house, even though the voices were so aggressive and loud. Somewhere a horse whinnied, then another answered. A tiny slave passed us, burdened with an enormous tray of spent oil lamps; his starveling arms could barely stretch to hold it. Cookery was going on, a military breakfast that required robust banging of immense pans, amid a scent of fresh-baked bread.

  A soldier with only a loincloth hanging round his knees appeared in a doorway, saw his Princeps, grinned, gave a vestigial salute, then scuttled out of sight again. Men in the escort glanced at me. I carried on quietly, letting them know I had seen a dingle-dongle before; moreover, that this soldier’s wizened specimen had failed to reach my standards.

  Internally, I was preoccupied, wondering what I could say to the prisoner. Last night I had gone home far too late to think, too tired to prepare a plan. Perhaps I could first describe the treatment he would receive from Alfius, with his tools. Remind the man he was doomed to die. Pretend that if he helped me, I might intercede to obtain better for him, maybe even a reprieve …

  Tiberius had cited possible inducements to win over such a prisoner. Given how serious the situation was, I reckoned the secretariat would agree. Whatever the pretender had already been given by his backers to take up his role as Nero, offer more. Suggest a new life, a safe new identity. Promise protection for his family.

  We entered a dark, narrow, damp-smelling corridor. When we reached the cell I was furious. There was Philippus.

  He had never said he was coming; I regarded this interview as mine. Yet he had arrived before me. He stood outside the room, stiff in his palace whites, gathering his toga close, uncomfortable in these surroundings. Surely a spy should be less fastidious. His attitude labelled him a mere armchair expert.

  He saw my irritation. ‘Nothing has happened yet, Albia. The pretender is still fast asleep. The attendant is just going in to wake him.’

  Being a soldier, the ‘attendant’ made a crude chambermaid. His method was what he would use on a tent of dozy recruits who were trying to avoid parade duty: a stentorian yell. For added finesse, he applied a boot hard to the nearest limb of the prisoner.

  At once the Princeps ordered him to stop. ‘Hold it.’

  The False Nero had not stirred.

  The soldier stood back. He shuffled one foot, trying to hide a piece of straw from the prone man’s crude sleeping bale that had stuck in his boot strap. Normally untidiness would gain him a reprimand. Sensing a crisis, he straightened and saluted his commander. The action was smart, yet diffident. A soldier’s soldier to his shiny studs, I guessed Titus was much-loved.

  He spoke in his usual unhurried way, but he motioned the rest of us to remain outside. Through the door we watched as he stomped in alone. He did not rush. He walked across to the prisoner, peering at him closely. With powerful hands, he lifted up the man by his tunic, further inspected his lolling head, even shook him. His shake was the hard, abrupt action you use to free the last slug of fish pickle from its container. Nothing happened. He laid the unresponsive figure back more gently. The False Nero returned to his straw bed like a child’s cloth doll.

  ‘Bugger me.’ Not an enticing invitation. ‘Why did you have to do that, son?’ the Princeps asked mournfully, talking to his prisoner. ‘Oh, you’ve upset me now, you really have. This is my camp and I did not give permission for you to disturb its nice routine.’ He turned to address the rest of us. ‘This is awkward, awkward for somebody. Your False Nero has gone and died on us.’

  22

  ‘Are you sure?’ Philippus was beginning to annoy Titus. The prisoner was dead. Anyone could see it.

  The camp commander would have preferred to decide his next move away from official scrutiny. Get your story straight. Fix it. Then tell the bastards. When you do, tell them as little as possible.

  I went in for a look. Now in full Princeps mode, Titus was affronted by my disobeying his order to stay out. I didn’t let that stop me. I reckoned this would be my only chance.

  There were no marks on the corpse that I could see. The old bruises remained, but no new ones showed. Nobody had thumped him after we had left last night. Stooping close, I saw no frothing on his lips. No ligament cuts. He had not been stabbed: there was no blood. If he was hit on the head, nothing showed on his scalp among that pathetic, dirtily dyed hair.

  Grudgingly, Titus let me conduct this inspection. He watched how I did it. It was beneath him to approve of a woman’s actions, but he made no move to interrupt.

  Still standing outside the cell, Philippus found his voice again; on his dignity, he announced that there would have to be a full inquiry. ‘Too right,’ agreed Titus, his voice laconic. It was lost on no one that the death was a failure on his part. He had not kept the False Nero safe. Important information had been lost. He, the officer in charge, had let it happen.

  ‘Perhaps he died of fright,’ suggested Alfius, the torturer, showing his youth. Perhaps being tortured by him was such a prospect that people collapsed before he had even arrived …

  ‘Or perhaps he had a really bad cold!’ snorted Titus. Then he uttered, in a disgusted voice, what we were all thinking: ‘Somebody got to him.’

  ‘Foul play?’ quavered Philippus from the doorway, still hoping not.

  ‘Poison.’ Titus kicked the bowl from which I had seen the prisoner eating broth. He was eating his dinner … The Nero was being killed before our eyes though we never knew it. Could we have saved him?

  The commander became even more morose. ‘This man was in special measures. Who the fuck gave him food?’

  All the soldiers present managed to look blank. Every man became certain he was not on watch yesterday evening. Titus peered at each of them, but he knew the rosters. These were not to blame. Others would be. Gods help them.

  Alfius shuffled into the cell with us, taking care of his shoes. He picked up the bowl, sniffed, threw it down again angrily. ‘I gave instructions. No food, not even water from the moment he arrived. I wanted him hungry. I wanted him starved. It’s best if my subject is light-headed when I start!’

  ‘It’s best if he is still alive,’ I said. He stared at me blankly. No torturer understands irony. If you are ever a prisoner of the state, absolutely do not try it. I called out to Philippus, ‘Do you want me to investigate?’

  ‘Not allowed,’ interrupted Nearly-Nine-Gongs. ‘My jurisdiction, my inquiry.’ Seeing me unrepentant, he insisted, ‘There have to be protocols!’

  Pretending I had not heard him, I told Philippus quickly, ‘You will need a list of everyone who had access to the man. The Princeps must supply a statement to confirm whatever orders were given for his custody. But the contacts list is most important. Anybody on it,’ I instructed Titus, ‘must be confined to quarters until he has been interviewed.’

  ‘My jurisdiction!’ growled Titus again.

  I told him quietly, ‘You might prefer that somebody neutral exonerates you, Titus.’

  ‘I do not think so!’ answered the Princeps Peregrinorum, shepherding me from the cell.

  Since it was indeed his jurisdiction, that was where we left it.

  So long as Philippus and I were still there, Nearly-Nine-Gongs appeared to take his responsibility seriously. He had the cell locked after us all.

  ‘What can we do with the body?’ Philippus fussily demanded, keeping his voice low.

  ‘I’ll have his head shaved,’ Titus answered at once. ‘Make him anonymous, get him chucked in the river.’ It seemed a practised routine.

  ‘No!’ Philippus sounded strangely decisive, as if he, too, had been in this situation before. ‘Strip him and burn all he came with. Wait until tonight when the roads are full of vehicles. Take him some distance outside Rome in a covered cart. Dump him. Make sure no one sees you. Then delete any record that you ever had him.’

  That suited the Princeps.

  And so, just like his illustrious predecessor, the third False Nero would end up ignominiously lying in a ditch. Unlike the real one, he would never be lifted out of it and placed in a marble mausoleum.

  23

  What now?

  The commander had Philippus and me removed promptly from the Castra. No escort was provided for our onward journey; we were put out and stranded in the daunting porch, with deadweight gates slammed behind us, like unwanted door-to-door salesmen. This was nothing new for me, though I could see Philippus felt his position as a palace official was compromised. He seemed astonished. Astonished that the Princeps had done it, astonished at himself for letting him.

  Since Alfius, the torturer, had been hustled out at the same time, I grabbed him and took him with us to a nearby bar – not choosing the first we came to or one within sight of the Castra.

  We settled in a quiet corner, while I sent Philippus to order. The palace could pay. This was their mess. Since the bar was used to soldiers who needed to be sobered up for duty, its breakfast victuals looked promisingly substantial. Without disrespect to the late False Nero, I was now ravenous.

  While we were on our own, I double-checked with Alfius his instruction that the prisoner should not be fed. ‘This is not your fault, then. Now, Alfius, you can help us. You don’t want to be tainted by what happened. It’s in your interest to discover who did provide the bowl of broth. Maybe you are going back to the Castra for other work.’ He agreed; in that dark place, they tortured people all the time. ‘Keep your ears open. If you hear anything useful, please tell me. Tell me urgently.’

  I gave him directions to find me, remembering that I now lived not at the fabled Eagle Building, Fountain Court, but the aedile’s house in Lesser Laurel Street. When I spelled out that this was on the Aventine, Alfius looked frightened. ‘Bear up, lad! Fear of the unknown is what you impose on other people. You’re immunised. The Aventine is fine if you keep your wits about you. Trust me.’

  His work had left Alfius doubtful of the trust concept.

  Philippus rejoined us so I sent him a warning glance not to start talking business yet. Alfius had little appetite. He was upset by seeing a dead man. Although the subjects he worked on often died, he never had to witness it. So now he picked at his food moodily.

  Philippus had a healthy put-away. Death did not faze him. I had been right: he seemed like an innocent scroll-winder, but he had seen murdered men before. I wondered if he had ever killed any.

  I tucked in. I knew how to compartmentalise. The False Nero stayed in a pigeon-hole that I could revisit, but for now I had closed the columbarium door behind me.

  We were all silent. Unfortunately, this gave an opportunity for another customer to come over and sidle into the free space beside Alfius, uttering a cheery greeting.

  We were all too demoralised, some of us too busy munching, to say how unwelcome it was to have our table invaded by this garrulous idiot. It had still barely passed dawn. At that time of the morning all normal people are glum, but this pest, who called himself Trophimus, kept asking impertinent questions about who we were and what we were doing in Rome. Philippus tried to be polite; Alfius was inclined to gossip, though I noticed he never revealed his day job. I refused to speak.

  ‘A lot of people have come in for the Roman Games,’ burbled the inane one, trying to find out if that applied to us. Alfius said he never went; Philippus only smiled, which was no deterrent for this man.

  I started privately inspecting him. I picked at a nut bowl to cover it. He was plainly dressed, giving nothing away about his profession or position in society. Clean enough, shaved not too many days ago, no status ring. He was muscular, in a way that comes from daily work rather than the gymnasium. His accent was plebeian; his cheeky-chatter attitude came straight from the streets. He could have run a market stall, selling stolen cloaks from bath houses. If he had belonged to a better class, he could have been a bent book-keeper. There are plenty of those in Rome.

  He seemed innocuous. He seemed artless. He was a friendly fellow who hated to sit quiet on his own, so he liked palling up with other people when he was out in public …

  No, he was not. He was the loyalty police.

  Alfius had eaten all he wanted; he went home to his mother. His bag still clanked like a plumber’s toolkit. The barman called out to him: could he fix a fountain for them? Alfius said sorry, but he had too much work already.

  The chattering man limpeted himself to us.

  I sat quiet until, as I expected, the intruder blathered his way to discussing whether the Emperor would come home from Pannonia to preside over the Roman Games. The mole seemed to be still digging away at his theory that our party was in town for the festival, but once I spotted what he was up to, his intended move was obvious. Chewing a bread roll, he asked innocuously, ‘So, do you think the Emperor is doing a good job – between friends?’

  Time to act. I half turned to the scroll-beetle, who was seated alongside me. ‘Philippus, if there’s one thing this deviant is not, it’s a friend. I thought our problem was that he would palm our purses. But, trust me, he wants something worse.’

  Philippus breathed wry amusement. ‘Ah, you have noticed too!’ He had these moments when he emerged from his vague persona and became openly astute.

  I gazed at the chatterer, waiting for the idiot to realise we were absolutely on to him. I went on staring until most people would have wilted but he was too deeply committed to his act; he feigned surprise at my challenge, determined to keep going. He had chosen us. We were today’s marks.

  When I had stared long enough, I tackled him. ‘We cannot be the first people to see through you. But you never let a simple thing like exposure end it, I see! Cough up. You lie in wait in bars, luring the public into slandering our Master. You want us to say something that lets you whop us into court. What do you have – a daily prosecutions quota?’

  Philippus drew himself up, with a pained expression. ‘I am a Palatine official. This lady is an aedile’s wife.’

  That was stupid. I was so miffed that under the bench I kicked him viciously. ‘Sorry, my foot slipped … Silly move, man. Now this slimy chancer thinks you and I are here for an illicit tryst. Adultery will serve his purpose, though – if it’s true.’ The agent looked as if he had not thought of that; he was too narrow; he could handle only one set script.

  Trained by relatives who were informers or lawyers, I complained bitterly, ‘We go straight into court, and the Treasury pockets our assets for Domitian … Of course it’s not true, is it, Philippus? You are running a spy ring and I am an agent you’re handling for state security. This crass bastard is ruining our secret meet.’

  The crass bastard wanted to say something. I cut across him ruthlessly.

  ‘Push off, vermin. Assuming you’re based in the Castra, Claudius Philippus controls the man who controls your promotion record.’ Doggedly he attempted another interruption. Full marks for trying! It got him nowhere. ‘The first thing my colleague will do, back on the Palatine, is call up your personnel scroll. Then he’ll scratch a poison-stylus note to your commanding officer. Are you enjoying Rome? Make the most of it, because you’re heading back to whatever bog or desert your home unit is stationed in.’

  ‘He may not have a unit,’ suggested the handsome Philippus, mildly, in his cultured voice. ‘But if not, I can have him deleted from the freelance list.’

  ‘Well, there you are, Trophimus.’ I smirked at him. Trophimus looked surprised that I had remembered the name he had used. As an informer he was an amateur. ‘That’s Rome,’ I stated. ‘Even men who use fear as their weapon can themselves be threatened. We all have something we don’t want to lose. Now it’s your turn.’

  Trophimus finally took our hints and pushed off.

  The bar-keeper, who must have seen Trophimus in operation before, brought us new beakers of mulsum with a sympathetic grin. It seemed he was none too keen on having a provocateur in his bar. ‘On the house.’

  We thanked him for this rare treat, drank up slowly, but then left without saying any more. The bar-keeper would have listened in on any conversation, which he, too, would have reported somewhere.