‘We have been extending hospitality ever since we covered costs for Tiridates – that was horrific,’ Trebianus grumbled. ‘Nero allowed him eight hundred thousand sesterces a day for his enormous retinue, which took nine months travelling here! Thank goodness what we cough up now is less. The current envoy also came overland – they say it is because a magus cannot cross the ocean; a Zoroastrian priest should not pollute the waters with any bodily excrescence. This one made a disgusting parade of it, camels, war elephant, the lot. Even those ghastly armoured men they call cataphracts. He now stays in a substantial property. I have a man in the house.’

  ‘Of course you do! So your man saw Ritellius? Is he actually living with the Parthian diplomats? Did he come to Rome with them?’

  ‘We do not believe so. They had to provide a list of retainers and associates. He was never on it.’

  ‘Coming with the diplomats would lend new meaning to “going native”!’ I commented.

  Trebianus, po-faced, gave me a lesson in what ‘going native’ traditionally meant – adopting foreign food, ethnic customs, living with a non-Roman wife, growing a beard, liking obscure footwear … The point was that the dissolute man lived that way in his adopted country, not that he came home in peculiar clothes with barbarian habits.

  I thanked Trebianus patiently for this helpful lecture. He looked as if he suspected satire.

  ‘So Ritellius was spotted – once only? What did your witness think he was doing?’

  ‘No idea. Morning visit. Difficult to eavesdrop.’

  ‘Was Ritellius under duress?’

  ‘No. He came of his own accord and left when he wanted to.’

  ‘Could it have been some operation? Observing the Parthians in Rome on your behalf?’

  ‘No, it damn well could not!’ Trebianus must be tiring. He answered me grouchily. ‘I can watch them in Rome myself. I have a reliable man in the house to do just that. I need Ritellius in Ctesiphon! He had no remit to come home. He is off track, gone maverick, breaking orders, risking my planned programme. I have stopped paying the bastard.’

  I soothed his raving. ‘By the sound of it, if you cut his cash, he’ll soon reappear! All right. So when he was in Rome originally, before you sent him out as your agent, where were his haunts?’

  Trebianus shook his head. ‘Not something I would ever have known.’

  I sighed. ‘This will be tricky for me. People usually go back to places they know, visit previous contacts. If you can’t say where or who, then I’m stuck. Can you at least steer me to his old friends? Surviving family? Are any of the sad women he has abandoned living in Rome?’

  To my surprise, Trebianus at once said Ritellius had a wife. She was one of several he had picked up along his life’s complicated path, but this was his first, his wife in Rome, who seemed to be the one who mattered – in so far as Ritellius ever displayed any nostalgia or loyalty to women. Until he disappeared, his payments from the palace were all made through that woman, who apparently viewed herself as having an unbreakable claim. She and Ritellius had remained on decent terms.

  ‘Did they have children?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Children might have explained them keeping in contact … but no. Yet he uses this wife as a conduit for funds?’

  ‘She holds back some of the money, with his agreement. It is something we do for our agents. They are not like soldiers who are barred from marrying. We often recruit them as mature men, bound to have acquired personal baggage. If we take her man abroad for very long periods, we give a wife security in return. With Ritellius, her involvement was his choice. There seems to be a romantic attachment, even though he cannot have seen her for decades.’

  ‘So he kept other women, had affairs, yet this one always retained her hold? She even received pin money out of what you were paying him.’

  Once Ritellius vanished, his payments stopped. So she lost hers too. That cannot have pleased her. Trebianus had already sent a man to ask what she knew. Because of the terminated pay, she had seen off his messenger with a heavy cauldron.

  ‘Straight off the cooking fire.’

  I said I liked the sound of her. The cauldron did not worry me. So I made Trebianus tell me her name and where I could find her.

  He then suggested that if the wife said nothing, I ought to try the new Parthian embassy, where Ritellius had been spotted. I told him to forget it. The Parthian official would think I was being sent as a sexual favour. Even before I was a new bride, seeking information in that way had held no appeal. For one thing, it never works.

  ‘Last question, Trebianus. This is the most important. I see that, for all his faults as a man, Ritellius is a superior agent. You do not want to lose a contact of that calibre. You seem heavily exercised by his abrupt disappearance. Is he your secret love child – or what’s the urgency to find him?’

  Trebianus considered more of his writhing act, but under my stern gaze he controlled himself. Sitting stiff, though with his head at an awkward angle, he said, ‘I had asked Ritellius to scrutinise the Parthians’ support for the False Nero. I wanted him to identify our collaborator. His last message hinted he might have something to tell me.’

  So there I was: looking for a man who knew the identity of the most dangerous traitor in Rome. Thank you, Trebianus!

  28

  The tolerant wife’s name was Ilia. She was called after a famous female painter, Ilia of Cyzicus − an ancestor? Ilia the wife of Ritellius was connected to a decorative trade. She worked at a big ivory saleroom below the Palatine.

  As I walked there, I mused on how Cyzicus was capital of the Hellespont in northern Asia. It was there that Minicius Italus had been holding office when he was summoned to deal with his provincial governor, Cerialis, though presumably that had no relevance to Ilia.

  These Romans were a curious people. Gripped by reverence for the past, emperors would nevertheless sweep away anything that stood in their own way. Nero had remodelled the whole eastern side of the Palatine. He had buried layers of historic works, even a shrine where cult worship went back to Romulus. After hundreds of years of veneration, it was destroyed for his self-aggrandisement.

  The Great Fire had obliterated most of the city centre, allowing Nero to build his Golden House. Vespasian, the modest Sabine, had given back that extravagant personal home when he filled in the lake to gift the Flavian Amphitheatre to the public. The opposite statement.

  On the Palatine flank, Nero had created a marble-sheathed revetment. He cut into the hillside to allow a sweep of colossal halls and colonnades. Stuck with this, the Flavians improved it with buttressing and repairs. The rest of the Golden House remained an embarrassment. Domitian would rebuild elaborately on the heights, but Vespasian and Titus had tried to reuse space for useful purposes. So, among the grand Neronian planning at the foot of the Palatine there were a few commercial premises. One was an ivory establishment. Positioned behind a row of shops, it had the air of somewhere that might survive, centuries later, when all the imperial flummery above was fading and barbarians were taking over. Hordes from the east, say; Parthians maybe.

  I had never really noticed the place. That, too, was typical of Rome. The workshop was a stone’s throw from the Amphitheatre and new Arch of Titus. The proprietors did not bother to advertise. If you wanted what they sold, you would know this was the place to come. If you had never heard of them, they did not want to know you.

  The business carried on its high-class trade among very superior neighbours: the Amphitheatre, the Vestals’ House, the mighty Temple of Claudius, the palace looming overhead. If you looked up, you could see the revolving dining room; as it worked, you might catch the grunch-grunch as it slowly turned on its clay balls. There was much competition: workshop noises and a constant footfall by day, before groaning carts every night, lumbering in with gigantic tusks, then carrying out awkward, delicate loads, accompanied by annoying shouts from porters and drivers. Craftsmen make poor neighbours. I saw cattle carcasses being dismembered for bone. The reek of fish glue was dreadful. Glue manufacture was restricted to less reputable areas of the city but strong odours rose here as it was used to attach veneers.

  Their products were wondrous. Primarily they built fine furniture, mainly biers to carry important corpses at rich funerals, but also domestic reading-couches and beds, beautifully decorated with ivory, sometimes also inlaid with glass enamels or amber bosses. There were many, many tripod tables with carved ivory legs. Anyone who thought himself rich and powerful would clutter up his numerous houses with scores of such tripods, whereas normal people might think themselves lucky if they owned a snail spoon.

  You could buy ceiling panels or shelf ends. They offered vases in all sizes. Most expensive were chryselephantine statues of mixed materials, ivory to represent the subject’s skin, with gold for hair, jewels, clothes or armour; some shone with precious or semi-precious stones. Offcuts were turned into smaller items: hairpins, needles, fan handles, combs, styli, cosmetics spoons and sweet little dolls.

  At the other end of the scale, they did a large trade in much-cheaper bone. It was worked just as beautifully; when a salesman saw me browsing, he told me openly that most people could tell no difference in looks. In price, the difference was huge. Elephant ivory cost almost as much as its weight in silver but butchers’ bones could be had almost for nothing.

  I began by pretending to be a customer. This gave me time to acclimatise. Besides, it was tempting. Their stock made me wish I had brought a shopping list for home – though we would have to wait before we could afford most things here. However, since Trebianus was paying me now, I could not resist a box of alphabet pieces; I allowed myself to buy the smallest, cheapest bone ones. I knew Dromo would prefer dice and gaming counters, of which I saw plenty, but the letters would help me educate him. The salesman tried to sell me a waxed tablet and stylus set too, then produced a three-hole bodkin; he failed, but was not too pushy.

  We settled up, then I confessed I was looking for someone. Business in Rome often involves an additional discreet enquiry. Might your uncle give me another loan? Has any of you seen my brother? He went on a bender three days ago … Please tell your foreman to stop dropping in on my wife when I’m not there, or so help me I’ll kill him … Want to acquire some knocked-off fine red wine, almost qualifies as Falernian? …

  After hearing of her hefting a cauldron at an unwanted visitor, I expected the salesman to snigger, but Ilia’s reputation seemed normal. Her father ran the place, had done for many years. They were both viewed with respect. I was led to a room where craftsmen were carving ivory tablets. Among them sat a dark, middle-aged woman who must be Ilia. She was carefully engraving patterns with a fine cutter.

  Shamelessly, I said she had a lovely name: was she a descendant of the famous Ilia of Cyzicus whose paintings commanded higher prices than men’s? Looking up from her work, she replied no, though she had been named after her. Ilia of Rome had been allowed to learn painting and engraving, even though the men thought it unsuitable work for a woman.

  Ilia claimed she was only working there at the moment because she had had an unexpected financial let-down. I admitted I knew Ritellius had vanished and the palace had cut off her funds.

  As she turned more hostile, I told her who I was, who had hired me and what I wanted. She could have thrown the tablet she was engraving, then stabbed me in the eye with her carving gadget. Perhaps because I was a woman, she showed less fight than I expected. Perhaps since the first messenger upset her she had calmed down.

  Her expression said it all, however. That tight pursing of the lips and suddenly faster breathing. She was a typical Roman of the working classes. Her bone structure was good, beneath relics of a hard life that had left her skin taut, her eyes pouchy. She stared out, unafraid of anyone.

  ‘Ritellius is not the best of husbands?’ I decided I may as well be frank.

  ‘Never was. Now he’s proved he’s a beast.’

  ‘A beast! What’s he done?’ I asked, genuinely sympathising.

  ‘You may well ask − and who has the pig done it with this time?’

  ‘He is something of a womaniser?’

  ‘I am his wife,’ snarled Ilia. She had an impressive snarl. I tried to deconstruct how she achieved it, for future use myself. ‘I was his first. I was the one he left in Rome but never let go of. I looked after his money for him. Year after year I did that. One day, he was coming home to me.’

  I doubted that, but made no comment. Working with my female clients had taught me only to go so far. Instead I asked how she had met him.

  ‘He happened to have money at the time. He had inherited from his father. A small legacy, but enough to set him up in life if he handled it well – which he was incapable of doing. He came to buy something – anything. He had never possessed cash before; he just wanted to spend for spending’s sake. I was the foreman’s daughter. Sweet fifteen and sassy with it. I sold him a few things, caught his eye, liked him in return, soon we were living together. He was very attractive,’ boasted Ilia, needing to explain away her folly. ‘Tall, strong, unmissable.’

  ‘But he never settled down?’

  ‘Not him. He left. By then I knew him. Only surprise was how long it took him to flit.’

  ‘Did you ever think of travelling abroad with him?’

  Ilia laughed. ‘That’s not for women, is it?’

  Actually I disagreed. I thought of my parents – Father always homesick if he was dragged elsewhere, yet he went and generally coped with it, Mother ever keen to see new places.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ilia went on, suddenly conventional and complaisant, ‘I had to bring up my daughter.’

  The daughter was news. ‘You and Ritellius have a child?’ Trebianus had seemed to know nothing of offspring. For some, paternal responsibility might be grounding, though clearly not Ritellius. In fact, I thought all spies might do better without families, while the families would do better without them.

  Ilia became angry again: ‘I had her. He fathered her. That was the end of his role in her life, poor darling.’

  ‘But money came to you from the palace, didn’t it? That must have helped you to live, helped you to look after your child. He arranged that. Then if you were passing funds to him,’ I suggested, ‘he must have always told you where he was?’

  She gave a curt nod. Like all her reactions to questions on Ritellius, it was fuelled by old grievance and new bitterness. ‘I gave his portion to a banker. The banker sent a letter to another, in whatever country he was living. Then he could draw on funds. Until he used up his credit – which happened pretty fast, most times.’

  ‘He travelled extensively?’

  ‘I guess you can’t go further than Parthia. He went to other countries first, but he was one for daft projects. I thought Parthia was because I had taught him about ivory.’

  That puzzled me. ‘What’s the connection?’

  She liked questions where she could show her expertise. Ilia and I had a short conversation about elephants. People automatically associate them with Hannibal and Carthage, but she said the huge war elephants, those that could carry a tower full of archers on their backs, had always come from India, not Africa where the beasts are smaller. Their habitat once extended all the way through Persia, now part of Parthia.

  ‘So, using the ivory trade as his introduction, Ritellius could get by there?’

  ‘They have workshops like this – we don’t export, nor do they send stuff this way. But the College of Ivory Dealers in the Transtiberina maintains contact. So he could vaguely call himself a trader, and do what passed for negotiating. Madness,’ Ilia spat. ‘You wouldn’t buy a used stylus from him, despite his laughing eyes and banter. And I, more fool me, had given him the know-how. What’s happened now, I did it to myself.’

  ‘Did what to yourself, Ilia?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘I helped to put him where he met that Squilla.’

  Her naming of a woman hardly came as a surprise.

  If Trebianus knew of this other female involvement, he had withheld the information. That would not surprise me either. He could be testing me to see whether I dug deep enough and found her – or he, a man working among bureaucrats who all looked as though they never engaged with anything feminine, might not see the significance.

  But the woman was crucial. I knew that straight away.

  Squilla was blonde. ‘She would be!’ I commented under my breath. Ilia and I shared a snatch of disapproval.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t damage my eyes looking.’

  Ilia had done her homework. It cannot have been the first time she had sized up a rival at long distance, but who knows how she had found this out? It sounded as if Ritellius was stupid enough to have told her himself. That, I thought eagerly, meant she had seen him. I bided my time, letting Ilia commit herself further.

  Squilla was younger than Ilia, more carefree, less responsible, and to Ritellius much more alluring. She probably carried out vigorous acts in bed. To an ageing, foolish, rapidly decaying man, Squilla was exciting and dangerous. She had a grip on Ritellius that none of his other women after Ilia had ever achieved. Squilla was his last chance. He had met her in Ctesiphon. There, she had put up with him as long as it suited her; then one day she had taken off, like a gorgeous migrating bird. Ritellius had decided she was the love of his life. Wherever she flapped to, he must follow.

  ‘Anyone could have told him it was stupid, but the howling fool left his work among the traders, dropped all his tasks for the government. She isn’t even Parthian – but he reckons she is living with some of them here. So back he’s come, slavering, whimpering after her.’

  So that was why Ritellius had called on the Parthian diplomats. He had thought his girlfriend was there, living it up on silk cushions, conducting her sexual athletics for Rome’s great eternal foe.