‘Ilia, I take it he has visited you since he returned to Rome? He told you all this?’

  ‘Seen him? He wouldn’t dare come squirming back! Oh, no. Word just gets around in our business.’

  Though she protested, from what I had heard about Ritellius a visit to his betrayed wife was horribly likely. Up until this point, she had told me the truth, but now Ilia was lying.

  ‘So what is so wonderful about Squilla?’ Her winning talents as a lover were probably what mattered, though I did not say that to the disgusted wife.

  If this really had been just word getting around in the business, there were plenty of details. Squilla was a carpet merchant’s widow. She had acquired money when her husband died; anyone with funding was always attractive to Ritellius. It was unclear what she really saw in him; perhaps she had mistaken him for a refuge or perhaps she liked risk.

  They had run through her cash, living wildly. That was the end of joy for Ritellius. Squilla had begun cosying up to a Parthian, who gave her what she liked in life. This Parthian was an important man, who had then come to Rome.

  Trying to get Ilia on my side, I assured her I had no desire to go in among the Parthians to ask about Ritellius. So I needed Ilia to give him up. Pointedly, I looked around.

  ‘You won’t find him here!’

  ‘No.’ I commented that although the place was filled with implements – lathes, drills, chisels, knives, saws, carving and smoothing styli − one item was lacking. ‘So where is your famous cauldron, Ilia?’ She glared. Intelligent and quick, she knew what I meant. ‘I see no cooking facilities in this workshop. Yet when Trebianus sent someone to ask you what was up with your husband, you hurled a heavy pan at him so he left in a hurry.’

  ‘Soup in his hair!’ Ilia agreed. ‘Lovely! I shan’t have him crawling round again.’

  ‘Crawling around where?’ I demanded sternly.

  ‘Where I live,’ she answered, sounding feeble.

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘I live with my father.’

  ‘Oh, stop it! I’m not stupid, Ilia. Never mind your father, who else was hiding in the house? Why were you so keen to get rid of the palace’s man that you wasted good soup on him?’

  She shook her head mutely. She knew I had guessed.

  ‘You didn’t want the palace man to spot him. Ritellius is with you,’ I said.

  ‘Not any more!’ She flashed a fast denial. ‘My father kicked the bastard out. He confessed all about Squilla, so it’s over. Everything’s over for ever.’

  ‘What about his daughter?’ I shot in.

  ‘She died. She died last year, having a baby. I had written and told him. The bastard hadn’t even remembered we had lost her.’

  Ilia squared up defiantly. Male engravers had been ignoring us, though no doubt listening in. Now they stopped work, looked up, let me know they were ready to gather around Ilia and make me leave her alone.

  I had no wish to cause the woman more grief. I said I was sorry I had had to ask so many questions. I left my address, in case Ritellius reappeared. She might be prepared to pass word to me, although I felt it more likely she would continue protecting him. She was his wife, his first, his wife at home. That was how it had always been. Why would anything change now?

  29

  Since I was by the Palatine, I went to tell Trebianus what Ilia had said, then see what he wanted me to do.

  I reached the palace via a new covered ramp that Domitian had built. This sliproad up the Palatine enabled the imperial family to come and go unseen, but was also available for visitors, at least when the Emperor was absent. You entered through a massive arch. Rising against the side of the hill, tall covered corridors turned around tight hairpin bends as they climbed in seven steep sections. The passageway was wide enough and high enough to ride on horseback, or even to drive, though the ramp was primarily designed for ceremonial entry in a carried litter.

  Inside, it was cool and dark, muffling out the noisy bustle of the Forum as I climbed towards the palace above. The interior flights were sometimes dimly lit with flares, though there were high-up openings to admit natural light. Towards the top, small steps were beside the roadway, which was easier on the legs.

  If Domitian had been at home, I would have run the gauntlet of guards, but he had taken the best Praetorians abroad with him. Those who remained were either past their best or too new to ask proper questions. I even persuaded these second-raters to let me use their welfare facilities, halfway up. It was only a bucket in a cubbyhole, but better than leaving them to make their own arrangements. Anyone could guess what that would mean.

  One of my new friends agreed to help me find the Parthia-watcher’s office. I could have asked Philippus, but I was unsure whether Trebianus wanted Philippus to know of our new work arrangement.

  Yes, I had plunged myself into the dung-heap of palace politics. Among the maggoty secretariats, it was all intrigue, jealousy and backstabbing. My position was increasingly awkward. I could never be sure I trusted either Philippus or Trebianus. I was sure they did not fully trust one another. At its simplest, I was not included in their networks so they would hold back information from me.

  I still knew that the traitor in government could be either of them. If so, purporting to seek a defector must be a ruse. For all I knew, Philippus had had the False Nero killed, with the poisoner, Paternus, working for him. Or maybe the collaborator was Trebianus; did his field agent, Ritellius, disappear because he had learned his own handler was in bed with Parthia?

  The Praetorian and I emerged from the last ramp onto a high terrace with breath-taking views. I was escorted inside the palace via a private entrance. Pleased with himself, the inexperienced guard asked an usher the way and found the right office for me. I slipped him a thank-you coin, which he took with far too obvious gushing. He needed the Princeps Peregrinorum to lick him into shape. Titus would know how to palm bribes unnoticed.

  I found Trebianus with four slaves serving him a full-table banquet. It appeared to be his normal early-afternoon activity. I wondered how someone so thin could guzzle so much yet remain flab-free. Perhaps gorging was his idea of getting into the Parthian mind, spoiling himself with excess.

  He put aside his linen napkin. While the servers padded out with the salvers, he led me to a reading-couch for our discussion. I managed to snatch a small beaker of water from a passing tray. One of the slaves then took it upon himself to bring me a bowl of gingered prawns.

  They still had their shells on. For me, there would be no silver fingerbowl afterwards. For the rest of the day I would be ginger-breathed and fish-smelling. But ending up sticky does not faze an informer.

  The first thing Trebianus told me was that the Princeps, of whom I had been thinking just moments before, had now found the corpse of Paternus, the Castra poisoner.

  ‘That was quick! Perhaps he knew where to look … Where was the body?’

  ‘In the Tiber.’

  ‘Surprise! We’ll get nothing out of Paternus, then.’

  ‘No, he has been silenced. Somebody is one jump ahead of us,’ complained Trebianus. I pulled legs off my prawns while he settled down. ‘You’re right, Albia. It was inevitable. Paternus will have been bribed, but we shall never know who paid him.’

  I disagreed. ‘We might. Somebody set up the killing, someone handed over the bribe … Still, he is conveniently disposed of. We can only concentrate on things we are able to deal with.’

  I tackled him about Ilia: why had Trebianus sent me to the ivory workshop without mentioning that his first messenger actually visited her at home?

  Trebianus looked surprised. ‘Never thought twice about it. It is true she lives with her father, has done for years, since Ritellius first left her – maybe even when they were living together as a couple. The father’s house is where we always sent the money. My man must have known that – he was the one who generally took cash along. He is asking for compensation, by the way – not just for the dent in his head. The cauldron she heaved at him was full of boiling liquor. He was badly scalded.’

  ‘Soup, I believe.’ I said I was sure Trebianus would deal with that in a sympathetic manner.

  I reckoned the soup-throwing had been to divert attention: Ritellius had been with Ilia. She now swore she had cast him off when he confessed his passion for the alluring Squilla, yet Trebianus should have her house searched, then watched in case Ritellius sidled back.

  ‘Surely not, Albia!’

  ‘More than probable,’ I growled.

  ‘But he has treated Ilia abominably.’

  ‘So?’ I had finished the prawns, and drunk the lukewarm water. For me this finished the interview. ‘Use your resources to double-check what I was told by Ilia. Then, unless you can identify anyone else Ritellius still knows in Rome, I’ll have to do as you said: I must get into the Parthia house to speak to Squilla.’

  Trebianus began to say something but I held up a fishy hand to stop him. ‘Ask your man in the house whether she is really there and anything he knows about her. I don’t want to go without the best preparation possible.’

  ‘Of course. And I shall give you a brief on the new envoy.’

  ‘I intend to avoid him.’ He nodded. ‘You knew nothing of Squilla?’ I demanded.

  ‘I assumed Ritellius had a new mistress; that was his normal pattern. I never supposed this one was particularly significant … I did hear a murmur from a different source that he had taken up with someone sophisticated and very beautiful.’

  Hmm. Squilla was one of those!

  ‘So,’ I asked coolly, ‘where is the official residence?’

  When Trebianus told me I nearly refused to continue. Twelve years ago I had known that house. It held bad memories for me and all my family.

  ‘Oh, brilliant! You do know who used to live there?’

  Trebianus looked evasive.

  ‘That,’ I explained calmly, ‘used to be the private residence of the Emperor’s chief spy.’

  Trebianus said it was nowadays kept as a grace-and-favour residence to offer to visiting dignitaries. After a scandal and cover-up involving the last incumbent, the post of chief spy remained vacant. The work was covered by the Praetorian Guard and, behind the scenes, little-known agencies at the palace. I managed not to snigger. ‘At least I know where to find the place.’ I also knew of a back exit. With a Parthian envoy, the need to make a fast escape seemed likely. Never trust a man in silken trousers. ‘It seems I have to do this for you. Though to be honest, Trebianus, I had hoped never to enter those miserable doors again.’

  I said I would tackle Squilla tomorrow. It allowed more preparation time. For that house I would need back-up, though I told Trebianus I would supply my own. I knew just the person.

  I left the palace.

  30

  I was starting to see Lesser Laurel Street as home. I entered, using my new key and hoping to slip in unobserved. As I crossed the small atrium, sweet sounds were coming from upstairs.

  I was beset by Graecina, full of righteous complaint. ‘As you can hear, Flavia Albia, a musician has imposed himself.’ She spoke as if he was an uninvited drain-cleaner, some operative from local administration who claimed we were polluting the street.

  ‘That must be the celebrity citharode, the Fabulous Stertinius. I recognise his art. He played for us and our guests at our wedding. My mother managed to secure him. Most people will be wild with jealousy that we now have him in our house, jamming for free in the master’s bedroom.’

  Graecina would rather have had a leg amputated. ‘How long do you think this person will be staying tonight?’

  It was still only late afternoon.

  ‘As long as we can keep him,’ I replied cruelly.

  Graecina said Stertinius had heard about the lightning. Touched that it had happened to a man he had played for on a happy occasion, he had generously brought some fellow musicians to see whether wonderful music would help the patient. ‘I was asked to keep the children quiet and Dromo occupied. Your husband,’ said Graecina, as if mentioning my filthy gladiator lover, ‘had me give those people refreshments!’

  ‘Is it a whole theatre band? Any request from my husband should be obeyed.’ I really was not helping.

  I could see Galene listening in from the kitchen corridor, with a smirk. Katutis lay stretched on the dolphin bench, letting the fine Roman music sweep him into a rhapsodic trance so he could ignore all surrounding tension.

  I went upstairs. On my appearance in the doorway, Stertinius and two other players burst into triumphal chords, an improvised paean of greeting. Tiberius looked happy and rested. Harp music must be consoling. I kissed my fingertips and waved them over the musicians, like a predatory social hostess congratulating herself on the grand success of her stylish salon.

  They rattled off a few more numbers. I listened alongside Tiberius, holding his hand. Stertinius had brought a flautist and drummer, though the drummer pattered discreetly.

  They had to go on to an evening concert, so I took them politely to the front door. I gave Stertinius profuse thanks, telling him honestly that we could never afford his normal huge fees, but any time he wanted to practise at a friendly house, it would console my husband if he came to us; we would be happy to share our humble meals with him and the others. I made sure Graecina heard me.

  ‘You are a delightful couple.’ Stertinius bowed over my hands. ‘It is an honour.’

  His companions never said anything, but smiled and also bowed to me. They had long hair with curious moustaches, more or less clean and combed, and wore colourful robes with dramatic sashes. Either they were foreign, or they chose to look so to give them validity as artists. They didn’t need to. They all played expertly.

  ‘No, Stertinius, the honour is ours.’

  Rome is full of music and somehow we had collared the best of it. I grew up on the streets. I had lived alone for years. I felt bemused now to have such a household.

  I found Dromo, who went into a long moan because Tiberius had snapped at him earlier. ‘All I wanted was some money for a cake. He could have just said he hadn’t got any. He yelled at me. He was horrible.’

  ‘You have to bear with him. You know it’s because of the lightning.’

  Dromo kept grumbling. I sent him with a note for my cousin Marcia. She was to come with me tomorrow.

  I had worked with Marcia Didia for years, whenever I needed a female aide. She made a good chaperone, watchful and fun to giggle with afterwards. She was witty, extremely bright, and at twenty-two had managed to avoid encumbering herself with a husband. This was despite stand-out good looks even among the Didius family, who all boasted of how handsome they were (often not quite as true as they thought). Her mother had been strikingly beautiful, though she had grown fat and slothful. In their home, Marcia now took the place of the parent. She was the only child of Father’s dead older brother, or so her mother claimed when touching Falco for support money.

  The real reason I worked with Marcia was that she could judge a situation before trouble started. If it did, she could run fast. Also, once when a drunk had tried to assault her, I had seen her punch his lights out. Knowing she was too attractive for her own safety, she had learned boxing at the gym on the Vicus Tuscus where my father did weight training.

  We would be posing as respectable matrons. Even so, I did not want a wimp with me. Marcia would be ideal.

  Tiberius seemed unwilling to come downstairs, so we ate supper in our room. Though soothed by the musicians, he remained very quiet. At one point, I caught him with a walnut in one hand and a nutcracker in the other, staring at the tool as if he had no idea what to do with it. It was a two-part hinged gadget I had owned for years and had come from the auction house. It was made of bronze, with crouching lions along both sides. You put your nut between the two arms, then crushed its shell between serrated teeth. The way it worked was obvious. In any case, at my old apartment, Tiberius had used it.

  I gently took the nutcracker from his hand and started preparing nuts for him. I thought he might flare up at me, as earlier with Dromo. However, he accepted my intervention, seeming relieved. Frowning, he ate each walnut as I handed it to him. After a while he fed one or two to me.

  Once he settled, I decided I must tackle this. For the first time, I persuaded him to talk about the lightning strike. It troubled him that he could not even remember it happening. He thought there had been a flash of blue light around him, a terrible noise in his head, an odd metallic taste. He had no recollection of falling down unconscious, or even of being brought home. The agony of the moment had been superseded by mysterious physical and psychological symptoms. Nothing was normal any more.

  ‘I keep feeling I no longer know who I am.’

  ‘You said yesterday who is Faustus?’

  ‘Exactly. Everything seems to have changed. Whatever things were like before is all gone. It’s so incomprehensible that I am lost.’

  Heartbroken for him, I held him. I hid my own feelings, once more feeling isolated. I missed the man I loved. I wanted him back.

  He was in pain again. I knew he was trying to wean himself off the poppy-juice. Strong-willed, he refused to be taken over by the drug. I respected that.

  ‘I told Stertinius they could come again. Was that all right? The music seemed to help you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I liked it. I seemed to be taken out of my confusion for a time.’

  I had been intending to spare Tiberius anxiety over what I was doing in my work. But when he asked, I told him about today and what I had to do tomorrow. I even explained why I felt so uneasy about the house I had to visit.

  ‘I have been there before. When Vespasian was emperor, it belonged to his chief spy, Anacrites. My family knew him. He had worked with my father. He invited us all to a Trojan Hog dinner once.’

  ‘Not as much fun as it sounds?’ Tiberius had gone on the alert. At least this was taking his mind off his pain.

  ‘He was a bad man, hostile and dangerous. My father and Uncle Lucius were caught up in proving his involvement in terrible crimes. Cruel multiple murders, committed by his relatives, whom he sheltered – in that house – and even encouraged in their killing.’