‘I never heard about this.’

  ‘All hushed up. The security services wanted it settled without scandal.’ I had never talked of these events to anyone before, but in the circle of Tiberius’ arm I felt safe to discuss anything.

  He spoke in a low voice, as if spies might be outside listening. ‘Something happened to you at his house?’ he asked.

  ‘I talked to the man. I was a young girl, completely oblivious to danger. I even went back there, to his house all on my own, believing I could persuade him to give up secrets. Then I did get scared and ran away. Looking back, it terrifies me more, because I understand what very great danger I was risking.’

  ‘Your parents must have been appalled.’

  ‘They thought he seduced me.’

  ‘Did he? Did he try?’

  ‘It was worse than that. Much cleverer. More horrible. His aim was to make me want to seduce him.’

  Tiberius kept his voice neutral. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. But the effect was insidious. I still feel soiled from having been put in that position with him. That is what he was like. Utterly corrupting.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Tiberius.

  ‘He was executed.’

  Like so many. Yet not like them, because my father and my uncle had done it.

  After a time, Tiberius rasped, ‘I should come with you tomorrow.’

  ‘No, love. I cannot let you. I am taking someone else, don’t worry. This is women’s business.’

  31

  Old age must have doomed the watchdog, an incandescent brute who used to bark himself hoarse, letting you know he wanted to kill you. Behind the fierce metal gates his kennel stood empty now, though a gnarled rope remained.

  The property was guarded instead by a matched pair of moustachioed guards in narrow-ankle trousers, with crossed baldrics over their shoulders. The baldrics were for show. I looked, but they seemed legal; I could see no arrows.

  The guards seemed like mean cheats whose knives would fly into their hands if they were offended − but they behaved politely. Why do you think I brought Marcia? Though she was not quite so lovely as her fabulous mother, men melted when she batted her dark eyes. I was in charge of our party, but their concentration was on her. That left me free to gaze around discreetly.

  Marcia and I had planned in advance to appear like girls any guards would treat well because we reminded them of their little sisters − a good plan so long as they liked their sisters. We prepared carefully. My mother had travelled almost to Parthia, to Palmyra, which is a long way east. So Marcia asked Helena, who gave us a steer that the grand dames of Palmyra wore far too many necklaces, with ranks of bangles and heavy ear-rings, topped off by neat turbans under flowing head veils.

  ‘Party time!’ Marcia gleefully relayed this news.

  Spoilsport me, I said we would be decently Roman, though we could wear our best dresses. In my clothes chest I found an azure number that had barely had its hem tripped over, while Marcia came in the gown she had worn to my wedding. Graecina obligingly scrubbed the wine stains off her front while Galene sewed up my skirt.

  We did keep light stoles over our heads, holding up one hand by our cheek, as Helena had instructed, as if ready to hide our faces. We had no real intention of that; this was our city where the women went bare-faced. Hiding Marcia would be a real waste, though I, of course, was a married woman. In Parthia only my husband would be allowed to look at me. As a Roman wife I would count myself lucky if he bothered.

  The guards accepted us as bringing good wishes to the ladies of the house. They believed we were respectable – even though when Marcia and I were together, the tone tended to lower rapidly. We were asked to wait in an anteroom. Soon my chaperone was fizzing with pent-up mischief.

  ‘Calm down, Marcellina. We must behave, or this will cause a big diplomatic row.’

  ‘So who are we supposed to be?’ asked Marcia. It was rather late in the escapade for clarification. ‘Are you asking me to play a hired woman of the night?’

  ‘No! We have come at mid-morning to show we have no sexual motive.’

  ‘Where have you been, Albia? Sex in the morning is wonderful – or so people tell me!’ Marcia was incorrigible. I loved her.

  ‘We could say we are canvassing for donations to good causes, but they’ll hide from beggars the same as we would. Keep it vague. Trebianus says the women here are never let out socially. The poor ducks must be screaming bored.’

  ‘Up to us to entertain them?’

  ‘Yes, but go easy! We’ll just say it’s a courtesy call.’

  ‘Diplomacy – yuk!’

  Marcia pouted. She had a round face below mad dark curls. Her neat figure was well honed by boxing practice − or whatever else she did at Glaucus’ gym, where she was a big favourite. Young Glaucus, who now ran the place, was an ex-Olympic athlete, a serious, dedicated man, but that wouldn’t stop Marcia being a handful.

  When an attendant came for us, my cousin followed meekly while I led the way like a dour matron. We were taken to a large, over-sumptuous room. Colourful carpets on the walls, silk hangings, enough fringing and tassels for a haberdashery shop. The seating comprised long divans, their cushions plump and slithery. We dropped and lolled in the eastern fashion, rattling our jewellery.

  Four big-bodied veiled women covered up with little curtain face-veils. Over the tops, they stared at us. Swathed in silks, they looked as plump and slithery as the cushions. They had been playing with a basket of grey and white kittens, which is no proper diversion for mature adults. I shot Marcia a look that said she would have to deal with the animal life. She liked cats. It was her one bad trait. Even for work, I draw the line at being spiked with claws. If one of the little demons jumped in my lap, I would fling it out of a window.

  I asked the Parthian dames to unveil again since we were all female. Obligingly, they pulled aside their face screens, though long swoops of diaphanous stuff still hung from the tops of their headdresses. Now framed by those, they had handsome faces, with long straight noses. Curses. Their colouring was only slightly darker than our own. Not one was blonde. No Squilla.

  Older than us on average, they must all have been striking in youth. If anything, they had layered on even more gold chains than Mother said. And beneath the so-called modesty veils they were painted up like Egyptian gods in wall frescos. I had never seen so much kohl in one room, not even in Alexandria.

  We spoke Greek. They seemed as rusty as we were, but we all got by; laughing over language issues broke the ice. I talked. At that point Marcia listened. I gave them the courtesy-call excuse; they looked flattered. Saying I was an aedile’s wife worked as validation. For the next few months it would be true; I might as well milk it.

  They told us their names, which were all unpronounceable so we had fun with that. We said ours. They played more games, pretending these were difficult too. As I thought, they were desperate for new conversation, so when Marcia chipped in with how I came from Britain, where names were even crazier and the blue-painted people matched, that warmed up the ladies even more.

  She chucked in that my new husband had been struck by lightning. That went down a hoot. ‘Imagine waking up a bride, thinking your husband crackled last night but is now a permanent invalid!’

  The women chuckled raucously with Marcia. I was quieter, as I tried not to believe ‘permanent’ was true. One, called Asxen or something that sounded like that, must have spotted my troubled mood, for she leaned over and patted my hand gently. Could it be Rome’s enemy’s womenfolk had kindly hearts?

  As Marcia established herself as a good gossip (who would also pick up the damned kitties), I set aside my worry for Tiberius, forcing myself to join in with our plan to be entertaining. I mentioned that I had been in this house before, whispering that murderers once lived here. For bored women this must have been the best morning they had had in Rome. Pastries were rapidly sent for, as we settled in for a bout of squeals, giggles and lurid story-telling.

  This was going well. I hoped a hum of excited voices, amid gales of laughter, would entice Squilla out from wherever she was hiding. It worked − though not as I wanted. She did come to see what was going on – though the idiot brought her paramour.

  Perhaps she had no choice about it. He looked that kind of man.

  As soon as she floated in, I knew we had found her: a piece of work with hair so pale it was barley white and apparently natural. At first glance she oozed sophistication. On closer scrutiny I defined her as what our waspish aunt Maia called ‘a slut-heeled goddess’.

  She wore the hair loose. It was caught on the top of her head with a couple of skilful jewelled pins, but then cascaded over her shoulders. I wanted to put it away in a tight plait. Better still, lay my hands on a pair of shears and cut it all off. I mimed harmlessness; Marcia gave me a sharp glance.

  The gorgeous Squilla had a calm, regular, self-assured face that had to be accepted as true beauty. Her wide mouth naturally set in a mysterious half-smile. Squilla was tall and slender; she gleamed with near-transparent silk, beneath which were more than hints of breasts and loins. The clothes were fine, the jewels exquisite, her slut’s heels in fact were cork and stacked fairly high, so she overtopped the man on whose arm she dangled.

  Being a carpet merchant’s widow had set her up for a lifetime of relying on the male sex. No doubt she believed she used them. She had the clothes, had learned the attitude, and passed herself off as extremely high class. She probably drank money with her breakfast. His money, of course – whoever ‘he’ was at the time. I knew she and Ritellius had run through all hers.

  She was unveiled and I noticed the other women did not cover up. I suppose they were at home, among their own menfolk. Only strangers called for formality.

  Squilla’s current provider walked through the door in a gust of powerful importance. It was like a cloud of desert dust blowing in. He was no longer young; he must have been a big force in Parthia for some time. He had long dark hair peppered with grey and a full beard, all stranded in fine rows, beneath a straight-sided flat-topped headdress. His trousers had large roundels down the front from waist to ankle, from which the fine material swung in miniature swags. He had a hard body and an attitude to match. Fawning on him, Squilla either never noticed or ignored his untrustworthy eyes.

  For the ambassador, she was blonde, western, entrancing. Back home in Ctesiphon she must have made an exotic trophy. When she sought him out, he cannot have believed his luck. The fact this party was abandoning a Roman spy for him must have seemed exquisite.

  She had her work cut out now, however. The beauteous one had just run into competition. The couple came in with the air of having just left a well-used daybed, but as soon as he entered, the man’s eyes fixed upon my cousin Marcia. It tended to happen. The good-looking, straight-backed, single-minded women of the Didius family can grab attention just by being there. All Marcia had done to catch his lecherous gaze was flick a flea off a kitten’s fur.

  She was less perfect than his elegant doozy, but the envoy immediately spotted that the characterful newcomer was humming with promise. He could probably guess that she might have dipped a toe in the water, more than once, but she had never found a man to interest her. I knew how that would work with him. The challenge was irresistible.

  32

  The Parthian envoy, a man of rank and standing, was called Dolazebol. He was the type who, on meeting a woman, lifted her hand to his wet mouth, then kissed it while gazing up in a suggestive manner. He did this to us, even though the room contained his harem, including Squilla. I kept my disgust in check. Marcia wiped the back of her hand on her skirt quite openly.

  Although he must have noticed – as he was meant to − Dolazebol kept smiling. He had us trapped indoors. He had not even started with Marcia. She would learn.

  I hoped we could get through what we had come for before she kicked him in the groin. How many Parthian guards could my boxing cousin send reeling before she lost the advantage of surprise? I had never liked the idea of coming here; now I was more than apprehensive. I could not have come without a chaperone, but maybe I should have picked a mousy one, for her safety.

  Another man had been drawn there by the noise. He was a mighty round bundle, his huge bulk perhaps caused by disease. It had made him a wobbly pyramid of blubber on huge legs, beneath a big turban that bulged like the swollen body of an octopus. As he waddled in, he had to swing to shift from leg to leg. He might have seemed comic, but any henchman who thinks himself the equal of his superior is dangerous. He glittered with obsessive suspicion of us, and I took him very seriously beneath his rolling bluster.

  As he entered, he somehow balanced on one grossed-up leg, then arced a vicious kick with the other. Behind him a big white cat had been trying to slide into the room. Had the foot made contact he would have sent the creature flying down the corridor outside. But the cat must have known him: it shot off, with a loud protest.

  Though they froze, none of the Parthian ladies raised a complaint, which was telling. The man was clearly important. His name was Bruzenus. He wore a torque. Coming from Britain, I saw it as a gauge of masculine inadequacy.

  ‘Are they spies?’ he demanded, in crude Greek. Sure of it, he spat, ‘They are Roman spies!’

  Dolazebol must have disagreed with his attitude. The two Parthian men had a short fiery exchange in a language of their own, evidently quarrelling, though it soon ended; the one in the torque made an appeasing gesture, generous enough. The other clapped him round the shoulders like an elder brother, though they looked like noblemen from different tribes. I sensed that Bruzenus chafing with rivalry was pretty routine.

  I gave both men an innocent stare. ‘Aren’t spies meant to be narrow-eyed, hairy-chested men who single-handedly save democracy?’

  ‘With the biggest knives and the fastest chariots. When the men are men,’ Marcia chimed in, irrepressible as ever, ‘and the women watch admiringly.’

  ‘My parents knew a female spy once.’ Working hard to relieve the tension, I kept my tone gossipy. I was amusing the Parthian women. ‘Her name was Perella, her disguise a rather ripe Spanish dancer. She travelled the world slitting throats for the Emperor Vespasian.’

  ‘No!’ Marcia rolled her lovely eyes.

  ‘She is still alive, I understand. She has a little grandma apartment somewhere on the Esquiline, where she dreams of her days of glory while she drinks nettle tea … How can you call us spies?’ I shot accusingly to Dolazebol, feigning amazement that our bona-fide status could be doubted. ‘We are decorous females bringing overtures of friendship to your wives. What is supposed to happen? That we shall croon of love, you will submit on the spot, then we shall prise out your secrets? Please tell your friend that’s a mad idea.’

  My appeal for support allowed Dolazebol to overrule his belligerent aide once more, this time in Greek for our benefit. ‘These charming, intelligent ladies visiting our womenfolk cannot be engaged in espionage, my Bruzenus. What do we have here for spies, anyway? Our mission to Rome is not hidden. We are welcome visitors, guests of the state, keeping lines of communication open.’ This was hypocritical from a nation that had sustained a trio of False Neros, one only last year.

  ‘Not hidden indeed! You arrived on a camel train.’ I had this from Trebianus, who said the homesick beasts of burden were now quarantined in the imperial menagerie; several keepers had already been bitten.

  ‘I arrived on a war elephant,’ Dolazebol corrected me, slightly put out that I had belittled his style. I said I heard it was very popular with the public now that we were keeping it in our zoo.

  Dolazebol took it upon himself to tell me Trebianus’ story that a magus might not cross the ocean. Liking the sound of his own voice, he trotted out more details of Tiridates and his jaunt to see Nero, especially the niceties Parthia had insisted on: their prince was to suffer no signs of subjection and would refuse to surrender his sword; Tiridates had cleverly made that possible by carrying it, but nailed inside his shield. En route he was not to be denied the embrace of provincial governors, or kept waiting at their doors …

  Letting Dolazebol drone on, I recalled my conversation with Lusia Paullina about the False Nero appealing to the governors of eastern provinces. Denying their embrace and keeping him waiting at their doors would have been a well-known signal, it appeared.

  Dolazebol had also travelled to Rome in magnificent style, presumably being embraced diplomatically by governors with their teeth gritted. I returned my attention as, once again, he emphasised that his coming had been from the best of motives. He was not here to spy on us.

  I responded to that, now thoroughly grave: ‘Do not underestimate the Roman psyche. I, too, have observed them as an outsider. They are very straight, an open people. Collecting intelligence by undercover means is, for them, an unRoman activity.’

  Unacceptable behaviour had never stopped Rome – but, faced with lying men in silken trews, I felt free to dramatise.

  Dolazebol pompously agreed. ‘Indeed. Julius Caesar had ample intelligence of the plot to assassinate him – but he brushed it aside.’

  He was pontificating on our own history, yet I smiled. ‘Very foolish!’ Things were different now. If an Artemidorus today handed Domitian a list of plotters’ names, those names would be on memorial plaques by evening.

  The sidekick, Bruzenus, said something short, in a harsh Parthian language. Dolazebol answered, a couple of words telling him to shut up. There is a theory that it’s a good start to set your opponents arguing with each other, but I never favoured it. The air was thick with aggression; I wanted calmness and acceptance. But I made a note of them bickering.

  The Parthian women, by now our allies, joined in with open protest. Bruzenus snapped back, aiming his anger at one in particular, Asxen. She must have been his wife. That was her misfortune, but she bore it with spirit, firing off abuse. You wouldn’t have wanted her telling you to take off your outdoor shoes in the house.