The compromise Corbulo negotiated was: Rome would be said to rule Armenia but would install Tiridates, a charismatic brother of the Parthian ruler, as king. Tiridates travelled to Rome, and in what Nero called a triumph – a weird piece of international pageantry – Tiridates and Nero had bonded like brothers.

  ‘Nero loved the theatricality – he was entranced,’ growled Trebianus. ‘Tiridates taught him magic. Nero supposedly became a Zoroastrian priest – all the more ludicrous since the principle of the magi is that you take responsibility for your actions. With the maxim of “good thoughts, good deeds, good words”, only Nero the supreme, blind egoist could believe himself equal to it. But Tiridates knelt at his feet like a slave − this handsome, popular figure who had travelled to Rome in the midst of a small army, cheered at every town along the way. Nero, who never even saw an army, wore a triumphal purple robe and behaved like a conqueror. Tiridates went along with it. I can tell you Tiridates despised Nero. But since then Parthia, while loathing Rome, has claimed admiration for Nero.’

  ‘A convenience?’

  ‘Their choice. Being Parthians, they have their reasons.’ Trebianus was revelling in the mystique of his subject. ‘When the second False Nero, Terentius Maximus, jumped up ten years ago, Artabanus of Parthia was preparing war. Terentius would have been installed in Rome as his cat’s paw. Officially we claim that Artabanus abandoned his war plans because Terentius was exposed as a fraud. Not so. We were lucky: the king was beset at home by the usual relatives out to knife him. He was glued to Ctesiphon.’

  That said, Parthia was the great enemy. Rome lived with a dark fear that unstoppable hordes would come galloping from the Euphrates to swamp our borders and obliterate our way of life. Barbarians would pillage our national treasures, slaughter noble Romans, rape their virtuous wives, enslave their children, soak the Forum with blood, impose harsh alien gods, destroy our ancient liberty − all the while gabbling in their impenetrable languages, most of which no one in Rome spoke.

  Well, we knew Greek. Rome’s nervousness of Greek-speakers is intense.

  ‘Only two things prevent the Parthian threat,’ Trebianus said sombrely. ‘The ceaseless in-fighting for their throne and the fact they never have a standing army. When they go to war, they rely on retainers from the nobility, which is disparate, self-serving and completely unreliable. If Parthia ever sets up a professional army to match Rome’s, we are done for.’

  This scenario called for a dedicated Parthia-watcher. According to Trebianus, the foreign empire in which he was so expert posed unique problems. Specialists always say that. They claim their realm of interest has singular qualities, which demand individual treatment and permit breaking rules. Anyone who is an expert in a ‘unique situation’ counts as extraordinary in his own eyes.

  A cynic would say this is a good excuse for that expert to claim extraordinary expenses. Treasury auditors tend to disagree.

  ‘So is it your contention,’ Tiberius asked Trebianus, ‘that whoever is trying to manipulate events here is in collusion with Parthia?’

  ‘Must be.’ Trebianus made an expansive gesture. With the extreme length of his skinny arms, this was impressive. ‘The third False Nero clinched it. We could tell from the defiance with which the Parthians clung to him. They thought they had us.’

  ‘It was claimed we “nearly came to war”,’ I said. ‘If Parthia was being intransigent, what stopped it? More troubles at home for the King of Kings?’

  Trebianus replied, in an arch tone, ‘The talented Abascantus claims credit for extracting the pretender while keeping the peace.’ Once again his contempt for the leading freedman was obvious. I wondered if Trebianus felt that, in liaising with Parthia, Abascantus had encroached on him. But surely the role of a ‘watcher’ is to lie low, never to engage directly?

  Trebianus leaned forward to me, avidly intent. ‘Someone invested a great deal in this pretender. You actually saw the latest Nero? What was he like? Was he a genuine prospect?’

  ‘Fresh from a byre. Dung between his toes. But people believe what they want to believe.’

  ‘You have to remember,’ Trebianus brooded gloomily, ‘Nero has a huge pyramid tomb on the Pincian, with a Carrara marble sarcophagus, where flowers are still left to honour him. For some he never died. Or death leaves him undiminished. Nero somehow conquers death.’

  ‘An excuse for the Parthians, a tool for a would-be Roman king-maker? Trebianus, I still don’t see,’ I challenged him, ‘why you have come to us.’

  Trebianus squirmed. He was not a man who should wriggle like that, wrapping up his interminable limbs. If he locked himself in too tight, we might have to extract him from his own Gordian knot.

  ‘I believe you find people, Flavia Albia,’ he said.

  ‘It has been known.’

  ‘I want you to find someone for me.’

  So there he was on my client couch, struggling to bring out his request. He was embarrassed, uncertain, anxious. How many times had a prospective client sat below my shelves of elegant vases while squirming so miserably?

  I asked a crisp professional question: ‘Who is lost, Trebianus? And where did they vanish? If it was in Parthia, don’t even ask me.’

  ‘One of my agents. He did go missing in Parthia – he disappeared from Ctesiphon.’ I groaned. Trebianus continued excitedly: ‘But he has been seen recently in Rome.’

  27

  My husband turned to me, smiling. ‘Albia, this is for you!’

  Tiberius then stood up abruptly, as he did these days. Although he said nothing to excuse himself, he left the room with the air of a man who would not return. I assumed he was in pain again. I saw him catch at the doorframe as if in one of his dizzy fits. Then he carried on and I had to set aside my anxiety.

  Before I clarified the task, I set out in plain terms that Trebianus would have to pay me. I was not an informer because I hoped one day someone would award me a small temple, with my name on a plaque as a benefactress. I listed my charges, a daily rate plus a finder’s fee. Trebianus assured me there was a ‘Parthian fund’ to cover this, but as I had with Philippus, I asked for cash up front. Interestingly, he agreed. That must be how he paid his agents.

  I piled up bowls, taking them out of the room on a tray for tidiness. I told Trebianus I was fetching writing tools, so left him to mull.

  Taking advantage, I used the facilities. Graecina must have cleaned the cubicle. It now looked much less like a builders’ closet, which was how it had been left before our wedding. She had supplied a jug and new sponges on sticks. I could let my fussiest teenaged sister use it – though perhaps not Tiberius’ octogenarian aunt. One sniff and Valeria would tremble with distaste.

  I inspected the rest of my domain, making sure all the staff saw me doing it.

  At the front door, Katutis was supervising a locksmith, with his snootiest Egyptian attitude. I flashed the workman a smile, for balance. He had just cut his hand with a chisel so it failed to cheer him.

  The kindly teacher had gone. The two children had Dromo on a tiny stool and were testing him on Greek letters; they gleefully mixed him up over pi, phi and psi. Any moment now he would run away crying.

  Satisfied, I returned to the anteroom.

  ‘Right. You want to go ahead? Give me details, Trebianus.’ As Tiberius had said, this was familiar work for me. Better than slogging through Philippus’ task with the widows. ‘First, have you in person met this missing agent?’

  He nodded. ‘Know him well. I prefer to assess them myself, before sending them out.’

  ‘Name?’ As he supplied answers I took notes in shorthand.

  ‘Ritellius.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Fifty plus.’

  ‘Raddled! I thought spies had to be athletic young men who can get out of tight corners.’

  ‘He has some skills – well, he did have originally.’

  I sensed that things might have deteriorated. ‘Nationality? Rank?’

  ‘Roman, more or less. His father was equestrian, held minor positions, had funds. Ritellius dropped down the scale. But his paternity made him educated, personable, able to trough with anyone, free to engage in trade. He was right for us.’

  ‘What is his cover?’

  ‘A negotiator.’

  Most people assume power abroad is imposed by the Roman army. Territorial power, perhaps. The Empire’s true wealth comes from the movement and sale of commodities, both luxury goods and staple foods; this is often handled by negotiators who bring together buyers and sellers, in many cases fixing prices and organising transport. These unsung men have at least as much influence as the military.

  ‘What did he negotiate?’

  ‘High-end furniture.’

  ‘Io! I’d like to see his portfolio … Was he knowledgeable?’

  ‘Adequate. We didn’t want him spending too much time on it. An agent doesn’t need to be too good at his cover. A hopeless demeanour gives him more colour. Colour is needed. I want people to think of him when they have exciting gossip. In our trade, mediocrity is death.’

  ‘So it doesn’t matter if the locals think him a drunken bum? … Tell me about him.’

  ‘Past his prime, if he ever had one. Seedy. Raffish. As a man he is a disaster, given to excess, prone to trouble. He drinks, womanises, moves from one unreliable situation to another, lets people down all along his path, yet always charms his way out of it. That was what I needed from him – everybody knows him, they like him, he can go anywhere. A good agent can strike up a conversation with anyone – even if they are suspicious of him, they go along with it. Ritellius was just right. Nothing ever happened in the bazaars without him hearing.’

  I distrust that kind of person. ‘Someone like that sounds a little risky?’

  ‘He was oddly efficient. He did take trouble. That was why I assigned him to Parthia. Whenever he turned in a report, it would be high quality – and even in fine handwriting. It was the contents I liked. He prided himself on the high value I placed on his material.’

  I thought of the idiot Trophimus, that morning. He underestimated his powers of striking up conversations; I bet he could not evaluate material. When I mentioned the encounter to Trebianus, first he looked stunned, then he laughed himself silly at the thought of an attempt to subvert the clever Philippus.

  ‘Have you heard of this fellow?’

  ‘We receive weekly figures for arrests,’ Trebianus replied. ‘Trophimus frequently features. He rakes them in. Well, normally! He will be a bit light this week.’

  ‘I spotted him as soon as he sat down …’ I pulled the subject back: ‘Talking about the people you watch, you said “even if they are suspicious” – so when you send an agent to a country like Parthia, do people understand why he is there?’

  ‘Unless they are stupid. Any foreigner will come under scrutiny. But a good agent can bluff his way, even though everyone knows what he is doing.’

  I was surprised. ‘I had assumed spies worked deeply under cover.’

  Trebianus nodded. ‘Sometimes. Positioned in a local community, they may observe for us for years, in complete secret. If I do have anyone like that in Parthia, I won’t disclose it to you, or anybody. Even Ritellius, who was on the spot, will never have known.’

  ‘If there is a traitor on the Palatine, will he know about your hidden spies?’

  ‘I bloody well hope not!’

  Trebianus became aggressive in defending his undercover cells, explaining he always had to protect their identities. Otherwise, they could be tortured and killed. I calmed the conversation. ‘So you have hidden sleepers but Ritellius was working for you in plain sight … How would you communicate?’

  ‘Infrequently.’ I waited. ‘Letters through intermediaries, mostly, with the proviso that we know such messages are intercepted and read. The wording has to be oblique. Otherwise we have a system. Signals. Watchwords. Codes. Codes for me to summon my people into action, codes for them to indicate when they have vital information. Codes, very urgent codes, when they need to be brought home in a hurry – assuming Italy is home for them. Which it may not be.’

  I thought again of Uncle Fulvius in Alexandria. He had travelled there like a man of exotic tastes, too scandalous for Rome; he had ensconced himself in a tall, expensive townhouse with a roof terrace, where he had stayed for years, mingling with officials, traders, senior staff at the Museum and Great Library … Fulvius and his partner Cassius gave the impression they were on nobody’s payroll, but that was a useful front. They looked like nonconformists, with free loyalties. Private men. It made good camouflage.

  ‘Going back to your Ritellius: you considered him a valuable agent?’

  Trebianus did not hesitate. ‘One of my best. Intuitive, a natural. He was my protégé. I allowed him more freedom than anyone, perhaps too much for his own good.’

  I could see the disadvantages. ‘I guess he cost you! Pinched too much of the budget?’

  His handler grunted quietly.

  This Trebianus was an easy client to question. The intelligence services work as I do, so he understood the value of gathering as much information as possible, then plucking out crucial details. He listened patiently to my questions, answering each in turn without growing restless.

  ‘How long had Ritellius been in Parthia?’

  ‘Some years.’

  ‘Run to seed?’

  ‘Not especially. Disreputable enough to do his work. He looks as if he would drink the war-chest dry, then run off with the legate’s wife. Worse, run off without her, leaving her pregnant and broken-hearted. She has to appeal to our officials for aid, he is permanently gone. Turns up in some other armpit of the world, starts again with a new, equally shady life.’

  ‘His bags have been repacked quite a few times?’ I smiled, because Ritellius struck me as a dirty Adonis, like half the shiftless swine my female clients hire me to track down. ‘If I am to trace him, I need a description.’

  Trebianus looked blank. I explained patiently I must have pictorial details to use when questioning people; then if I finally ran down Ritellius, I would want to be certain it was him.

  Trebianus responded. Ritellius was tall, a figure people noticed. He was heavy-boned, usually carrying too much weight, often unshaven and dishevelled, though he could tidy up for a diplomatic reception, or to seduce a woman, even though women often took to him because they thought he needed mothering.

  He had no remarkable features. That would have made my task too easy. Not a birthmark on him, no quirks, no tics, no startling habits.

  ‘Well, a spy needs to blend in,’ I grumbled. ‘Even so, a limp might have been helpful. Red hair and a limp would have been perfect.’

  ‘Ah!’ Trebianus jumped. ‘I forgot to mention he is gingery.’

  ‘You are joking!’

  ‘No. Must have originally looked like a Celt. Perhaps that was his origin. Ritellius was a redhead last time I saw him, though it was some years ago and he was losing it. He must be bald by now.’

  ‘A lot of fair skin then! Freckles?’

  Trebianus havered. He could not remember, probably never noticed in the first place. I did not bother asking again whether Ritellius had a gammy leg.

  ‘Right. So – as to his vanishing. Exactly what happened?’

  Nothing had happened. That was how Trebianus had been alerted. Normally, Ritellius posted regular reports, hoping that juicy details would lead to a financial bonus. He was always in need of money. Not long ago, Parthia had replaced their ambassador to Rome. Since Nero’s extravagant bonding with Tiridates, King of Armenia, it had been customary to pretend we had a diplomatic friendship. Hospitality gave us some control. Or so we thought.

  Naturally Trebianus expected his agent to respond to this personnel change by providing advance information on the incoming Parthian. Rome (Trebianus) demanded a full brief. Ritellius sent nothing. Reports completely dried up. He failed to respond to reminders. There was silence from Ctesiphon.

  He might be dead, though if he had drunk himself into Hades, it should have been possible to find out. If he was hiding from creditors or angry business colleagues, there would be rumours locally. Trebianus possessed other contacts, none of whom had seen Ritellius in his customary stamping grounds; nor had they heard anything about him. If the Parthians themselves had taken against him, they would either tell Rome he had been arrested (in the hope Rome would buy him back, like a hostage) or they would kill him openly, as a cruel message. None of that had happened.

  He could have fled from one of his broken-hearted women, though in that situation he normally told Trebianus where to find him next; any sudden flight for domestic reasons always left him desperate for extra cash. Silence. Too much time had passed with no plea for funds. This was no moonlit flit to avoid a private crisis.

  ‘So, Trebianus, let’s move on. You say he has been seen in Rome?’

  ‘We are pretty certain it was him.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I watch Parthians wherever they are, including Rome. Especially here. We do not want an incident. I monitor anyone they send for diplomatic reasons – where “diplomatic” always means suspicious. Their envoy is lodged in a house we provide for him at public expense.’

  ‘That gives Rome some access?’

  ‘Exactly. It is made plain that travelling elsewhere in Italy would be unwelcome, but the envoy is free to live here and receive diplomatic courtesies.’

  ‘Parthians in Rome?’ I queried sceptically.

  ‘Often been done. Sometimes we deliberately took hostages, sometimes high-ranking Parthians sought refuge from strife at home. Rome has long encouraged foreign princes to live here and absorb our customs.’

  I had heard as much. Then they were sent back to rule their own countries as established friends of Rome. Imperial Roman women had households full of such fosterlings. Trebianus’ Parthian royalty had lived in Rome for long periods, bringing up children who had never seen their homeland.