This was Rome, the city of informers. I should know. Trust nobody.

  24

  We held the conversation we needed outside, by a street fountain. A woman who had been washing clothes had just left with her sodden bundle, so we parked in her puddles, hoping to finish before the next thirsty donkey came along.

  ‘Here’s what you do, Philippus – well, my advice if you want to take it.’ He nodded, buckling before a strong woman. ‘Go back to the Palatine. Tell Abascantus you came to oversee the torture session to ensure it was done right.’

  ‘And to hear for myself what was said? To report it accurately?’ Against my expectations, he had a prepared excuse.

  ‘Good. Admit it seems the Nero has been poisoned to thwart the intelligence service. Say the Princeps Peregrinorum is conducting an investigation, then look satisfied to leave him to it. When Nearly-Nine-Gongs gives his results you can judge for yourself whether he is scrupulous, or whether he didn’t look too hard.’ For all we knew, the Princeps himself had been in on the murder.

  Philippus meekly nodded again. I grimly considered how this biddable man held the safety of Rome in his hands.

  We stood, arms folded, looking into the water. A pigeon joined us.

  The new development left Philippus stuck with his traitor, assuming he was right that one existed. ‘It’s over,’ I urged. ‘The third pretender’s gone. The timing is inconvenient, but if people were using that poor creature to challenge Domitian, they can’t continue. Any plot is foiled.’

  ‘No, they will try again,’ he concluded despondently.

  I was used to supporting unhappy clients. ‘If they want to subvert the Emperor’s reign, they are bound to. But until they start, what can you do? Next time you will be waiting to catch them at it.’ He still looked like a badly stuffed dormouse. ‘Won’t you?’ I insisted firmly, feeling like his mother.

  Even I did not see what else he could do. A traitor who was clever enough, skilled enough, trusted enough to work in a high position would avoid leaving traces.

  ‘Philippus, you can only watch for clues. Past mistakes, future activity. You know what is wanted.’ Sighing internally, I elaborated: ‘Anyone who slips out to meet people they shouldn’t be seeing. Letters that go unrecorded in the proper system. Someone who vanishes on leave unexpectedly, then comes back and never says anything about the weather, the villa they stayed at, or how the wife catastrophically ate a bad oyster … Any clue to who was behind this, or what they are planning next.’ Philippus looked more confident, though he remained downcast. ‘I can’t help, Philippus. I cannot come in and audit your colleagues.’ Even if I wanted to – which I did not.

  ‘The Princeps may find out who did the poisoning,’ he mumbled hopefully.

  He was fooling himself; he knew it. I did not even bother to challenge his statement.

  I said I was going home. I had a new house, with disorderly staff and a sick husband. We had a neglected business. I was needed on the Aventine.

  Actually, since no one at home would expect me back so early, privately I had other plans. I was heading for Prisca’s bath house, looking forward to a long soak in whatever remained of last night’s hot water. I hate the feeling of unfinished business. I wanted to consider all this alone.

  25

  A quiet day at home. That would have been welcome.

  Dromo let me in. He looked shifty – the usual.

  I could hear women’s voices. It sounded as if two people were working amicably together. I felt doubtful, but enjoyed the novelty.

  Graecina’s children were sitting on miniature stools in a shady part of the courtyard, while a young man I had never seen before taught them alphabet letters. When Dromo noticed me looking, he whined that Graecina had said he, too, must learn to write, sharing their lessons. ‘She’s wrong. Tell her she’s wrong. I don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Dromo, it sounds very sensible. This will be a big benefit to you.’ If he could read and write, he would be so much more useful to us … ‘Learning will last you all your life. Do as she says. Go straight over now and join in.’

  ‘My master doesn’t want me to!’

  ‘Yes, he does. That’s ridiculous. Where is your master now?’

  ‘Those children are cleverer than me.’

  ‘They are only about four and five. Don’t be silly. Pay attention to the teacher and he will help you catch up.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’

  ‘Dromo, life is not about what you want, but what we, who have your interests at heart, want for you.’ That sounded pompous but, inevitably, sweet replies had failed. I was losing patience.

  ‘That man will beat me if I can’t do it.’

  ‘I see no stick. He uses a kinder method. Get going or you’ll have no cake for a week.’ That worked. ‘And where, I asked you, is Manlius Faustus?’

  Dromo jerked his head towards a room by the atrium. Dragging his feet, the bullied boy slouched over to attend the lesson. The teacher gave him a letter board and began to explain perfectly gently. I could see Graecina’s shy little children liked the young man. He looked friendly, wide-eyed, hopeful that he could achieve miracles through the wonder and joy of education. Life had yet to sour him.

  He had not worked with Dromo until now.

  Graecina had transformed a previously empty anteroom. Assigned as our interview salon, it was already housing my husband and a visitor. They were holding a strained conversation while they waited for me. Since I had not hurried home, they might have been waiting for some time.

  Tiberius had had a simple ochre wash painted on until we fixed up fancier décor. Hello! The furnishings were mine. The contents of my old apartment, mainly bedroom stuff, had already come from the Eagle Building in time for my wedding. Now someone had toiled up six flights of crumbly stone stairs to lug down the contents of my office. They would have risked the staircase giving way. My father had used that eagle’s nest before me, but I had chucked out his battered possessions, which even the Aventine homeless then rejected. My own replacements were comfortable, to encourage my clients to relax.

  Everything I used for work had been brought on a cart and installed here. Though it felt good to see familiar things, I hated the way this new room was arranged. My basket armchair had been pushed against a side wall, but I quickly pulled it out to a more dominant position, then plonked myself down in it. Once I could reclaim my couch from the visitor, its throw and cushions needed to be rearranged in the way I liked them. Graecina had given Faustus his own curule seat. I must find him something more comfortable. On new display shelves stood Greek vases I had borrowed from Father’s auction house to show I was a cultured informer who charged high fees. My housekeeper had worked fast to find a carpenter to put those shelves up – though I guessed she had gone into the builder’s yard and snaffled someone. It would stop the workmen thinking that while Faustus was sick they could spend all day eating pies.

  As I had feared, in my absence today Graecina had prettied up the plainly painted room with vivid floor mats, a set of twinky-winky drinks coasters and a truly hideous Cupid candelabrum. That had to go – it had to go right now. I picked it up by one horrid winged child, taking it from the room and dumping it in the corridor outside.

  ‘The putti from Hades! I am not looking at those plump little bottoms every time I come in here.’

  Tiberius gave me a wan smile. ‘I told her! She had tried phallic fauns first.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a simple hanging bowl?’ I grinned at the visitor, including him in the conversation. I knew him, and he must have introduced himself to Tiberius: thin, lanky, extremely tall, faintly musty. Trebianus, the Parthia specialist. The odd man with sallow skin and washed-out colouring had ventured out from the Palatine to our house. Whatever could he want? Could I bear to know?

  He was bursting to tell me, but at that moment doors were flung open to admit Graecina and Galene, vying to cause a commotion as they brought food. ‘I happened to mention I had not eaten,’ Trebianus said, almost apologetically though not quite humble enough.

  That was Rome. Full of people on the cadge, desperate for free meals. Our first week here, yet Tiberius and I had already acquired a client; no doubt he was hoping we would toss him a present, some dear little purse of coins to take home. We were lucky he did not have a wife and several children hanging around in a carriage outside, also avid for free food and drink. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Flavia Albia?’

  I said it was a pleasure. My first chance to play the gracious housewife! I would not bungle that.

  Anyway, since I had left home so early, it was still only mid-morning. If we shoved a few olives and cheese bites down Trebianus now, he might have safely gone by the time Tiberius and I wanted our lunch in peace. Mind you, I thought giving a palace official sliced egg, gherkins, nuts, fresh rolls and cold Lucanian sausage was an unnecessary extravagance for a first visit.

  We could iron out that problem later, when I played the domineering matron, hectoring my feckless staff. As Graecina and Galene served him, they glanced at me furtively, as if they anticipated my reaction.

  That was good. Keep them fearful.

  Trebianus ate while he talked. The mad-looking members of the security service were clearly used to speaking with their mouths full. Imperial staff are given a thorough education, which I believe includes social etiquette, but good manners in public must have been edged out of the spies’ cram-packed syllabus by vital tricks like leaving messages with twigs or invisible ink.

  ‘So what is this about?’ I wondered if my husband had already been told, though he stayed out of it, picking at the olive bowl.

  ‘As soon as I knew what happened at the Castra, I rushed straight here!’

  I raised my eyebrows, now tidied and reshaped at Prisca’s baths (so I was slightly sore), while I asked what, in the official view, had happened and why Trebianus had galloped around to us.

  In the short time, short as I saw it, that I had allowed myself at Prisca’s this morning being bathed, manicured, hairdo-ed, oiled, and pampered with delectable gossip, Philippus had gone back to the Palatine. He had reported the Castra murder. The inner security circle had met, digested, reacted. The Princeps Peregrinorum had turned up in person and reported on his inquiry.

  ‘Fast work!’

  The Princeps had taken no time to concoct a good story: an agent deployed to the Castra was implicated in the poisoning. He had since gone missing. The Princeps had men out looking for him. He thought it unlikely the killer would be found.

  I sighed. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Paternus.’

  ‘Does Paternus have a wife who is to be seen these days showing off a valuable necklace? Has he recently purchased a pointlessly fast chariot?’

  ‘They tend not to be married,’ replied Trebianus, gloomily. Having met one that morning, Trophimus, I felt no surprise. Even if he praised her food and was kind to her mother, a wife with any self-respect would find him unbearable. ‘The Princeps Peregrinorum believes he will turn up floating in the Tiber, Flavia Albia.’

  ‘Well, when he does, you had better assume the Princeps had him dropped there.’

  ‘Oh?’ Trebianus paused, with a roll half bitten through. His next words were muffled. Crumbs flew in every direction. I would need to sweep the couch. ‘We generally consider the Princeps Peregrinorum one of our own.’ Relieved of this aphorism, he chomped energetically.

  I felt free to be cruel: ‘You are taking a risk! There’s a man who despises palace freedmen for sure, so not naturally on your side. But losing the False Nero while in his custody leaves the Princeps in a lonely position. He must reckon blame will be landed on him.’

  Trebianus still looked unconvinced. He reached for another gherkin, only to find he had eaten them all. He had had his lot. I would not send for refills.

  ‘The Princeps let this man be murdered in the Castra,’ Tiberius intervened, ‘The harsh view must be that he was either coerced − or he is hopelessly incompetent.’

  ‘Thank you, aedile. Is there a gentle view?’

  ‘No.’ Tiberius had on his most dour expression. ‘So what is the palace intending to do?’

  ‘Call the incident unfortunate and drop it. Abascantus declared the matter closed. His position is that the pretender was always meant to be executed, after all. Somebody spared us the trouble, an optimist might say.’

  ‘I find myself a pessimist. What about information the False Nero might have given?’

  ‘Irretrievably lost, sir. We shrug. We move on with normal business.’

  ‘You approve?’

  ‘No.’ Trebianus neatly echoed the aedile’s own terse response. Maybe this man had hidden finesse. He must be bright, surely. Watching the Parthians was important to Rome.

  ‘So “normal business” is the Abascantus approach,’ I said. ‘What about Philippus? And what are you doing here, Trebianus? So agitated about it all?’

  ‘Philippus is a past master of shelving difficult problems.’

  ‘Really?’ The Philippus I had seen in the past couple of days seemed to blossom occasionally. Today his orders about disposal of the body had been crisp. He had shot shrewd orders at the Princeps, despite that man’s overbearing style.

  Trebianus seemed to adjust his line: ‘Oh, he has a fine mind. Excellent heritage from his father. One day, if he manages to survive, Claudius Philippus will be a man to tackle anything.’

  I glanced at Tiberius, then we both looked at Trebianus.

  ‘Philippus will just let the issue die quietly,’ he insisted. ‘He is an old woman, wants no fuss.’

  Of course that was not my experience. So Philippus was doing a good job of concealing his aim to uncover the traitor.

  ‘Why have you come here, then?’ I demanded bluntly, not giving Philippus away.

  The Parthia-watcher slumped further on our couch. He had folded up his long length like a resting stick insect. To fill in time, he moved egg pieces round and round in his bowl with bony fingers, staring at the food. Eventually he admitted the truth: he knew Philippus had suspicions, suspicions he shared.

  ‘We are not close colleagues. Nevertheless, colleagues we are. We devote ourselves to a common interest, which is the good of Rome. So Philippus and I, individually, have come to suspect that someone, someone with the power to influence events, has chosen to follow the wrong path into the mountains.’

  ‘Philippus has hinted this to you?’

  Trebianus jerked. ‘People in our world rarely voice such anxieties. Premature action alerts the opposition.’

  ‘So have you done anything about your own suspicions?’ Tiberius asked, sparing me the need to be so blunt.

  Trebianus looked shocked. ‘Done? Done, aedile? This is not a situation anyone should disturb without evidence and certainty.’

  Tiberius fell silent. Since it was my inquiry, he made a slight gesture, handing the initiative back to me. It was not abdication: I knew from working with him that avoidance was not his style. Tiberius Manlius addressed issues. He assumed it was his duty, because otherwise the world is packed with fearful fools who will never take the right action.

  I shifted in my chair. Tiberius made a smaller movement, uncomfortable on his curule seat. I was aware that Trebianus unconsciously mimicked our actions, also disturbed by the point we had reached in the conversation.

  ‘So, Trebianus,’ I kept my tone neutral, ‘what has brought you rushing to see us?’

  ‘Parthia,’ he said.

  26

  My husband was a background man. He called for a résumé on Parthia.

  I cursed. Much as I loved Tiberius, his obsession with detail could be gruelling. I had swallowed enough foreign background: Britannia, Germania, Asia. Filthy frontier provinces with restless tribes and haughty locals, all crammed with Roman agents observing loyalties until their eyes watered.

  At least Parthia was not our province, or likely to become one. Parthia was an empire in its own right. Parthia was huge. According to Trebianus, Parthia made Dacia, the wealthy and warlike society that so exercised our emperor, look like a moth-hole in the map.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a map?’

  ‘We are setting up house. We do not even possess a calendar of markets and festivals!’ snapped Tiberius, who needed one for his work. He could consult a list at the aediles’ office, but had not felt up to going there since the lightning strike.

  The Parthian Empire stretched between Rome and China. Its vast distances were crossed by the Silk Road, which gave it all the power and prestige of exotic trade, and by the Persian Royal Road, which provided excellent communications. That could be a disadvantage: Alexander the Great used the Royal Road to invade. Even so, from here in the west its capital at Ctesiphon was only to be considered for the most ambitious commercial enterprise. Rome and Ctesiphon did not easily communicate.

  Though heavily influenced by Greek culture in the past, the people spoke many languages. Politically, it was a conglomeration of nations led by a variety of satraps who had never truly settled to allegiance to the Parthian King of Kings. For us, this was useful: it kept the King of Kings tied up at home, lest the kings of whom he was nominally king tried to usurp him. Often attempts to overthrow him involved his close relatives.

  Rome had a long history of wars with Parthia, which included the ghastly battle of Carrhae, perhaps its greatest military disaster. Crassus, one of the First Triumvirate, was, naturally, attempting to invade. A spy had exhausted his army by leading them to and fro all night on the promise of finding a safe route. Crassus had seen his weary troops terrified and disoriented by deafening war drums, then mown down by long-range archers. After one blunder succeeded another, it was said twenty thousand Roman troops were massacred and ten thousand more captured. It was rumoured that because of his reputation for financial greed, the Parthians had poured molten gold down the dying Crassus’ throat.

  Major Roman figures attempted action in the east thereafter, Mark Antony among them. Most successful was Nero’s legendary general, Domitius Corbulo, after Parthia invaded Armenia; in the teeth of defeat, Corbulo overcame distance, harsh climatic conditions and the enemy’s tenacity to forge a compromise. It took him years. The envious Nero gave him no thanks; he forced Corbulo to commit suicide.