I kept busy.

  We had come to live in a house that Tiberius had bought to renovate for us. He was supposed to be running a building firm from a yard alongside; he intended to finance our own property out of his earnings on new contracts – but when would he be fit to work again? While he remained bedridden, I did not even discuss it with him. But I had to think about the situation.

  We had a bare plastered house, empty of furniture, except for a beautiful entrance hall and our own bedroom, which Tiberius had completed as his marriage gift to me. Until the morning after our wedding I had never seen them. Now I finally managed to look properly, in daylight, at the exquisite wall frescos, the elegant floors, the fielded doors with their crisp architraves and new bronze handles, the carefully repaired ceiling coves; going around alone I was very upset. If I lost him, I could never live here. He had worked so hard, intending me to enjoy this house with him. Today, he ought to have been showing me everything himself.

  His fresco painter turned up as soon as he heard what had happened, anxious about his bill. I snapped that it was thoughtless to harass a man who had so nearly died, and told him to return in a few days. If Tiberius was no better, I would arrange payment myself.

  Other creditors were making enquiries of our clerk-of-works, next door. Larcius came from the building yard and mentioned this quietly, saying he, too, was putting people off. I reassured him that we did have funds; it was true, though I was reluctant to dig into my own investments in case we used up all our money too soon. In the short term, Tiberius and I both had wealthy relations. We could swallow our pride, put up with their teasing, and call on my father and his uncle to pay urgent bills. That is how things are done in Rome. We would never be destitute.

  I did not at this point visit my banker, a cunning Greek woman who believed all savings must be hidden from your husband. Alternatively, you should grab any money that belonged to him − after poisoning his dinner.

  I liked her, but I knew Arsinoë would see the lightning-strike as the gods’ wedding gift to me: husband lost, so wife achieves wealth and independence. She had yet to learn that, if Tiberius recovered, my investments would be called in to finance our intended business. All bankers assume your money is theirs to play with. The idea that you might one day want to use it yourself is blasphemy.

  Tiberius and I were planning to be a family partnership, with me fully involved in our affairs. So now I had to tackle our debts. Not for me placidly weaving at a loom in the atrium, claiming that my husband always dealt with money matters while I didn’t understand that kind of thing … I would never possess a home loom. For heaven’s sake, I was an informer, not a weaver.

  I needed to organise our affairs, starting with staff in the house. So far I only had one slave belonging to Tiberius, Dromo, to assist me with nursing the patient and everything else. Dromo, a dim lad, always had a one-track mind: who looked after him? Shaken by what had happened, he became needy and anxious. If his master died, Dromo would lose his provider. There would be no more cakes, no more sleeping half the day on his mat. He might even be sold to someone who would make him work. Or they might cruelly beat him …

  I said unless he stopped mithering, I would beat him myself. If he wanted Tiberius to survive, he must help me look after him. Grumbling, he took himself off to brew up a spiced drink for his master. I had given him a recipe, though teaching Dromo anything was hard.

  I sat down to plan. We must have someone to answer the door. After years of run-ins with the foul-mouthed, eager-for-bribes incompetents who serve as door-keepers in Rome, I now reluctantly needed one myself. Tiberius was a magistrate and my own work attracted dubious types. Face-to-face with a stranger (or, worse, some idiot you already know), you lose your options. I had to obtain an intermediary. I could not use Rodan, the elderly ex-gladiator from my old apartment: he was sordid and filthy, not to be trusted in sensitive situations. Dromo was hopeless too. He could answer the door and take basic messages, but then he would forget to tell us.

  Someone to run the household was urgently needed. I couldn’t help Tiberius with his business, deal with my own clients, then also shop, clean, cook and make beds, let alone carry out that housewifely task of chatting to visitors politely even if they were persons I despised (most people). I might manage to sit in the courtyard handing around almond biscuits, but someone had to buy in dainties and bring them on a tray. Organising a home was not for me. I can do it. Helena Justina, my adoptive mother, had made me a knowledgeable, capable woman. But it was not what I wanted to do – any more than she did. So I had to find a good steward or housekeeper, and find them fast. Then I’d supply whatever staff they needed.

  I could give instructions. I had always been good at appraising situations then expressing an opinion. Tiberius even pretended to like me for it. The housekeeper would answer to me, and would know the position. Anyone who crossed me would be kicked out.

  The first addition to the steward’s staff must be some biddable slave for everything Dromo refused to do.

  You may think, why didn’t I dump Dromo? Bad idea. Dromo belonged to Tiberius. I would tolerate the boy patiently, as he did. I did not intend Tiberius Manlius ever to blame me for dismissing his adored favourite slave.

  No, of course he did not adore him. Dromo wore him down and drove him mad. But I was keeping out of that.

  I did know what I was starting here. I was a wise bride, and in choosing me Tiberius Manlius had shown he was a clever man. I was not some fifteen-year-old virgin, who had never been in charge of the keys before. I was nearly thirty and had lived on my own for years. Besides, I had been married in the past.

  So had he. As far as I could see, what he had learned from it was next time to choose someone different. Having met the ex-wife, I knew he had certainly done that. A crucial difference between me and Laia Gratiana was that I had my own career. A good informer can stay solvent; my earning power gave me reassurance. However long Tiberius stayed bed-ridden, I would pay our bills. I felt lonely while he was unable to share my concerns, but I stayed calm.

  I was to receive my next commission sooner than I’d thought. A new visitor arrived. Dromo let him in, shouting across the courtyard that he was too busy to keep looking after people. He went back to doing nothing. The man found his own way out to me. I knew him: it was Claudius Philippus, a bureaucrat from the palace. Although he said he was bringing official good wishes for my husband, from the start I guessed there was more to it.

  3

  I was seated on an antique stone bench that Tiberius had bought. Philippus joined me. We were in a small, bare courtyard, facing a wall through which a doorway had recently been cut to reach the building-yard next door. Beside the door, turned up on its edge, a rough-cut stone basin leaned, a huge ugly object awaiting overdue removal. It would need a team, with sturdy ropes. There would be much cursing. I intended to watch the performance secretly from upstairs.

  Something could be made of this area once we had time. At the moment the outdoor space contained only my bench and one potted oleander, a glum thing that had been brought out from where it was dying by the porch. After he entered through the redecorated hallway, Philippus must have realised the rest of our house was work in progress. Although he looked around, he made no comment. He gave a slight cough, as if reacting to the dust and expressing refined surprise that anyone could live in such chaos. I noticed him secretly making a survey of the good and the shabby. That must be to assess our financial situation.

  Tiberius Claudius Philippus was lean and ascetic, with fine features. His looks seemed unexpected because his manner was that of a man with little personality or home life. (Did he eat and sleep at the palace, in case his imperial master required something?)

  In his profession he followed his father, a much respected servant of the old, wise Emperor Vespasian. Claudius Laeta had been a palace freedman, so he had probably married another ex-slave of the imperial family, with their children being freeborn. Were there other children? I could not easily imagine Philippus with brothers and sisters. If so, I bet he created inventories of their toys, then wrote rules about who was entitled to play with what.

  My father had worked with the older man, Laeta, whom I had met, so I knew Philippus must have gained his looks from his mother. He could have been a playboy, making a career among rich society women, yet had chosen to be a scribe. His old-fashioned attitude was all his own. None of us would have trusted his father to serve us a slice of pie – yet Laeta was always aware, a keen observer and manipulator. The son might or might not be equally acute. Tiberius and I had met Philippus recently, but had yet to learn how ambitious he was, or whether he plotted.

  It seemed likely.

  Claudius Laeta, the father, did plot. He had carried on a gritty feud for years with the head of the intelligence service. Laeta had come up under the Emperor Claudius, whereas Anacrites had been Nero’s man. In public administration, this kind of history is critical. When the chief spy had brought their tussle to an end by dying in dark circumstances, as the best and worst of them tend to do, Claudius Laeta did not grieve for him but grabbed the role of spymaster. With him in charge, first Vespasian and then the short-lived Titus revamped Rome’s security service, once merely a minor role of the Praetorian Guard. Laeta was so subtle that the public barely noticed his adaptations.

  Under Domitian that altered. Spies were now openly everywhere; they were watching not hostile frontier tribes (though they must do that as well) but all of us at home, their brooding master’s frightened subjects. As I greeted Philippus, therefore, I felt wary.

  ‘When we met, your father had just died. Are you succeeding Claudius Laeta?’ I was flattering him. Philippus seemed to be in his thirties, too young to head a secretariat. He wore white palace livery, though kept it plain, with quite meagre gold trimmings, and he did not reek of fancy pomades. I could see no jewellery.

  ‘My field of interest is similar.’ This cagey reply was reminiscent of Laeta, who had cultivated his mystique. I decided to treat Philippus carefully, so I waited for him to take the initiative.

  Bringing official good wishes was a normal enough reason for this visit. A magistracy made Tiberius one of the most significant men in Rome, at least during his year of office. There were four aediles; to those of senatorial rank it was a rung on the ladder to consul, though Tiberius was plebeian so could expect much less. Still, for this year he looked after a quarter of the city.

  Philippus said Domitian would wish to know that an aedile had so nearly died, and in such an extraordinary way – spared by the gods. Would I describe what had happened? I did so, keeping it factual. ‘Please don’t make too much of this, Philippus. Don’t let it sound like some divine favour, competition for our Master and God.’ That was the title Domitian liked, while pretending he was too modest to allow people to say it.

  Philippus pursed his lips slightly. He knew what I meant. Our emperor believed himself a protégé of Jupiter, with Minerva as his personal patron. Anybody else claiming the gods’ special approval would diminish the Emperor’s position. Domitian could easily take it into his head that Faustus posed a threat. ‘He had a lucky escape, Philippus, but is suffering painfully. For Manlius Faustus this is no divine honour!’

  Philippus wanted to see for himself. I had to allow it, so I led him upstairs. When we looked into the bedroom, Tiberius lay pale, his eyes closed. He seemed asleep, though as Philippus left he opened his eyes to exchange a look with me. I found his expression worrying. I could not stop to investigate but it left me edgy.

  Philippus seemed in no hurry to leave. Back in the courtyard, he stared around nosily again; this time he commented on the lack of staff. He said I seemed to have my hands full, then pointed out that building projects were notoriously expensive.

  I saw what he was doing. I let him make his play.

  ‘You must have enough anxieties without financial pressure … I hope I can speak to you frankly. Would a paid task be welcome, Flavia Albia? Something so quick and easy, you could do it in your sleep?’

  ‘My husband does not wish his wife to work,’ I simpered shamelessly. Tiberius had not raised the issue or I would never have married him. He valued my work.

  He could probably overhear us from the bedroom above – I had left a door open in case he needed something. However, I heard no guffaws or growls.

  ‘I am sure we could find you an acceptable commission … In fact, I do have something that would be suitable – if you were interested?’

  Reluctant to work for officialdom, I gave Philippus no encouragement.

  He pressed on. Nothing deters a bureaucrat when he is trying to offload a task – and, as my father would say, especially when it’s a stupid one. ‘I feel sure your husband will approve … Flavia Albia, I need a respectable person I can trust, preferably female, to ask questions of two women. They are very high status, ex-consuls’ wives. In fact, both their husbands were provincial governors.’

  ‘Were?’

  Philippus jumped nervously. ‘Dead, sadly. Both men.’

  ‘How?’ I asked, stony-faced.

  ‘Executed.’

  I knew what this meant. ‘Big men sent to help them commit suicide? Loud knocks on the door, with swords at dawn?’

  ‘Yes, the usual.’

  Philippus made it sound a matter-of-fact occurrence. To him, it was. He worked for Domitian.

  Having persons of high rank removed by armed officers occurred too often nowadays. Titus had done it; even Vespasian occasionally, though he would use Titus as his frontman. They played it down. They acted as if executions troubled them. Domitian had no qualms. Under him, anyone who had the bad luck to catch the Emperor’s eye might find himself doomed.

  I had not agreed to accept the commission, but of course I asked who the dead men were and what they had done.

  ‘Who they were is the easy question. Your task, my dear Albia, is to help me prove what they did.’

  ‘What they really did, you mean? I assume Domitian already had thoughts on the subject when he picked them for a snap redundancy.’ Any ‘thoughts’ from Domitian about his presumed enemies tended to be ludicrous.

  Philippus explained. One of the men had been killed the previous year, one more recently. When I was told their names, I vaguely remembered. The deaths had been notorious because Domitian had struck when both men were in service, still out in their provinces. To execute a serving governor was unheard of. Governors had been charged with misdemeanours, usually extortion from provincials, but they had been properly brought home and put on trial.

  Why did he do it? Deadpan, Philippus named the charges against them: Sallustius Lucullus, governor of Britain, supposedly ‘invented a new javelin and called it after himself’. If true, it was a stupid insult to a touchy emperor. Civica Cerialis, in Asia, was simply indicted for ‘conspiracy’, a conveniently woolly term. It would have been difficult for either to defend himself, though defence against Domitian was never a real option.

  I assumed they were killed for a connection with the Saturninus revolt; Antonius Saturninus was himself a provincial governor, in Upper Germany. Last January he made a bungled attempt to seize power; afterwards, Domitian executed senators he suspected of involvement. He could not pinpoint many.

  With Saturninus, poor preparation might explain why he was so quickly defeated. To be confirmed in office would have meant winning over the extremely nervous Senate. My two uncles, who were senators, reserved judgement, never making any public comment. Most shared their caution.

  Any wide-scale support for Saturninus eluded detection. However, Philippus told me that Domitian had not forgotten. Almost a year later, he still wanted revenge.

  He was currently away in Pannonia, defending our borders. With autumn, the fighting season ended; Domitian would be coming home. In Rome’s mighty hilltop palace all the bureaucrats were jumpy. Naturally Philippus wanted a good report with which to greet his master. He wanted me to provide it. ‘Our Master would be very pleased to have his thoughts on these two men validated.’

  Or much less pleased if I proved he had been wrong … That might be fatal for me. ‘Is he definitely coming back?’ I asked. ‘He won’t enjoy himself with banqueting and screwing fancy boys in winter quarters?’

  Philippus let this pass, perhaps knowing it had some basis. ‘He has made peace and is coming home. He is to be awarded a double triumph for his successes in Pannonia and Dacia.’

  ‘Peace? I thought he bought the Dacians off!’ Many people despised him for it. I might have done, but I already despised him for too many other things. ‘I haven’t heard anything about the Senate awarding a triumph.’

  ‘Nor has the Senate yet.’ Philippus put on a special owl-eyed dour look. His father, I thought, would never have admitted that the Senate were helpless puppets.

  ‘What Domitian wants, the Senate must provide?’

  He nodded.

  It seemed incongruous to be seated in my private garden being told state secrets by a man who had seemed too junior to know them, but Domitian’s administrators tended to be young. He quickly dispensed with older ones, whom he viewed as compromised. Rather than use their experience or trust their loyalty, Domitian ousted anyone who had served his father and brother – even going right back to doddery freedmen who had once had connections with Nero.

  ‘So what’s your task, Philippus? Is it suitable for me, and do I even want to try?’

  The good-looking man looked down his long nose at me. ‘I invite you to interview the wives of Lucullus and Cerialis. See if they will confirm that their husbands were supporters of Saturninus.’

  I scoffed. The women would never admit that. ‘It would be foolish to reveal pillow talk. To admit they were aware of the revolt in advance would damage themselves, any children they have, and other relatives.’ Plots in Rome never went away. Executing two governors was merely the start; ripples would be flowing outwards from this incident for years. Nobody close to the men Domitian had condemned would ever emerge into the light, free from suspicion.