Before I gave him instructions, I quizzed him. Was civic loyalty a concept he could follow? Checking on Marius was especially important since Falco, as head of our family, had decreed that Domitian was a paranoid despot, so any of us who helped dethrone him could claim a safe passage to the province of their choosing plus a paid refuge for life. ‘Marius, I can’t have you deciding all rulers are monarchs, all monarchs are tyrants, so you will side with the unknown man who is betraying Rome with Parthia.’

  ‘They have rulers too. A King of Kings or, if there is a dispute, two simultaneously. Are they then each called King of Half the Kings, I wonder? Currently Pacorus the Second and Artabanus the Third, I believe … So what’s my position? All Parthians are warlike; all warlords are anti-democratic; I am a man of peace and democracy,’ Marius solemnetised. He could talk his way out of anything. For a passionate intellectual, he could even look like an honest man while talking.

  However, as one of the Didii, he often did not bother to look honest.

  The Greek robe was no use for a night-soil operative. I put him into one of Dromo’s tunics, which made both of them complain. ‘Shut up, Marius, you need to stink for this.’ The tunic was too short but his sturdy knees looked workmanlike. Marius insisted on taking his flute; I agreed waste-management contractors could have an artistic side.

  I went to wave him off, only to see outside an enormous palanquin, swathed in red and gold, variously pronged and tasselled, with moustached bearers fore and aft, giving away whom it must contain. It had stopped by our front doors. One of the bearers was making enquiries of our building foreman. Larcius gave him a sarcastic run-around on principle, because he looked foreign.

  I whisked Marius quickly out of sight, sending him out through the side door and the builders’ yard. He thought that a highly exciting start. I watched him go, dog at his heels, like Orion. Despite having two ethereal jobs, he walked off on his errand like a true heir of Romulus: pacey, athletic, aware of what was happening in each corner of his vision. Nobody jumped the Didii unless the Didii were drunk. Often, not even then.

  I ordered Graecina to tell the new callers that I had not yet returned home. This left an interesting confrontation between my husband, who had been placed under an invalid’s lap rug, and Dolazebol: the wan-faced aedile versus the devious Parthian envoy. Since Tiberius had been dealing with my family over arrangements for our wedding, he handled this well. After discussing costs with Falco, Tiberius Manlius could duck and dive.

  Apparently, Dolazebol wanted to assure himself that Marcia and I had not skipped off from his house in such a hurry because we had been accidentally offended. To my husband’s clear amusement (I was listening from outside), the Parthian managed to beg confirmation that he could have tickets for the Roman Games. Then he slyly asked if Tiberius knew the delightful Marcia Didia’s home address − just so he could personally check whether she was offended.

  Tiberius truly did not know that Marcia and her mother Marina lived in the ludicrously named Street of Honour and Virtue. He could say only that he would pass on the visitor’s concerns. He sounded like a protective male relative – as if he had just checked in the Twelve Tables of Roman Law what penalties might be exacted for looking too hard at an unmarried woman.

  Tiberius carried on the hypocrisy, claiming both his wife and her cousin were reasonable women, Roman women who would never notice any unintentional lapses in etiquette – ‘Of which I am sure there were none, sir.’

  Implied: there had better not have been.

  Dolazebol retreated into politics. He gave the honourable Faustus a more detailed lecture on Parthian intentions than he had deigned to give me, a woman. Parthia, he said, had never been the aggressor with Rome, but always sought peaceful coexistence. Rome, however, had for generations followed the lust for gold and the wish to make Parthia submit its sovereignty, invading or interfering ceaselessly. Rome insulted the Parthians and tried to bully them.

  He cited examples. After the great defeat at Carrhae, then later Mark Antony’s ignominious retreat, the Emperor Augustus had persuaded Parthia to return captured standards. To do this, Augustus had carried off the king’s son, a shameful piece of hostage-taking and blackmail. More bad behaviour included Rome sending a slave-girl, Musa, who lured King Phraates into marrying her, learning to love her, raising her to be his queen – after which this low-grade female agent poisoned the king who had valued her so highly so her son could inherit ahead of older heirs. A dire example, Dolazebol asserted, of Rome constantly trying to control Parthia and its client kingdom Armenia.

  Tiberius listened courteously. When he did interject, he agreed that Rome found it difficult to tolerate another empire as large and powerful as its own, right on its borders. History had shown that invading Parthia was so difficult logistically that any Parthian fears were groundless. Parthian client kingdoms, and even disgruntled relatives of Parthian rulers, constantly appealed to Rome for support and Rome would always offer a safe refuge to those in distress. But, Tiberius asked wryly, did that excuse Parthia’s very recent liaisons with Decebalus, the aggressive King of Dacia, while he was making war on us? Not to mention Parthia harbouring False Neros?

  Dolazebol ignored these accusations, maintaining that he had come to Rome solely to further diplomatic ties.

  I was startled by how firmly Tiberius crushed him: ‘You mean, now that Domitian has subdued Pannonia and negotiated peace with Dacia, he no longer has targets on our other borders – so you are afraid Parthia will be next?’

  Parthia, restated Dolazebol, wanted peaceful co-existence.

  Rome, agreed Tiberius Manlius, only wanted the same.

  Circular arguments were tiring for him. I arranged a rescue. Graecina went in with a dose of medicine, taking it upon herself to shoo away the Parthian. For once we were grateful for her interference.

  When Tiberius was alone with me, he gave his verdict.

  ‘Very colourful! But all steel. Under the exotic dress, the moral platitudes and the whimsical pleas there lurks a shrewd, hard man. I wasn’t fooled by his artless requests for seats at the Games. He understands our conventions. He knows what you were up to at his house. He came here to assess what you have taken from the incident.’

  ‘He believed he was playing you?’ I wondered.

  ‘I think he knew I saw through him. Clearly he has realised you, too, are someone with whom he needs to be extremely careful.’

  ‘I don’t want him in our house again, Tiberius.’

  ‘Well, you invaded his! But no. I was glad to have inspected the man for myself, but if he turns up again let us both be unavailable.’ Tiberius then asked, cautiously since he knew how I regarded instructions concerning my work, ‘Will you accept a request from me not to visit that house again, Albia?’

  For once I nodded easily.

  Much more welcome that day was another visit from Stertinius. The citharode turned up with his fellow musicians almost as the Parthian left. We were slightly surprised that his first remark was to ask whether he had spotted Dolazebol going off in his sensational palanquin. Apparently Stertinius knew him, from playing a home concert for the envoy and his household.

  His fees for private recitals were stupendous, I knew. Still, the Parthians lived in the height of luxury: silken carpets, golden cups, expensive animals, a high-class mistress … They would want the best, also want Rome to see and hear them having it.

  Besides, Parthians were dedicated music-lovers.

  37

  When Marius returned he was still walking proud, though looked as if he knew his message would depress me: Corellius had spoken to Squilla. He had found a chance while Dolazebol was out of the house annoying Tiberius.

  Squilla told Corellius that until her old lover Ritellius had turned up causing trouble, she had been unaware he had travelled back to Rome. She had not spoken to him that day. She could not risk jeopardising Dolazebol’s trust. So she knew nothing of where Ritellius might now be living. She wanted us to stop asking, and leave her alone.

  ‘Is that all, Marius?’

  ‘Afraid it is.’ His dark brown eyes looked soulful. He was teasing. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot something!’

  ‘I thought so!’

  ‘I wonder if it’s important.’

  ‘Don’t mess about.’

  Marius grinned. Like all my father’s family, he had a corking grin. It had come at birth, with the knowledge of precisely how to use it, especially when talking to women.

  ‘Spill, Marius.’

  ‘We had a chat. Seeing my flute, Corellius said if I was any good, which I assured him I am, and if I own a presentable tunic, which thank Jupiter I do, he will wiggle me in to play for the Parthians. They are always needing diversions. If I look cute and innocent, they are bound to relax their guard. People do so with hirelings. I may overhear something. Besides, I could do with the money.’

  ‘Well, please don’t let on you are related to Marcia and me. I don’t want the Parthians to feel bombarded with my whole family … Did the house steward ask for your gorgeous cousin’s address?’

  ‘No.’ Another grin. ‘But he did suggest that after I play, he and I should go for a drink … To make a party of it, I may like to bring our Marcia.’

  ‘He wants to show her how to fold dinner napkins … Code!’ I explained, allowing for a philosopher being slow on the uptake.

  Marius winced. He was too poor to have much of a love life. He had not progressed much further with girls than ‘Am I dead? Because I seem to be in Elysium.’ He would then go on to tell them that for a philosopher this raised knotty issues about whether there was an afterlife. As a girl’s eyes started to glaze, he would sweetly add that he hoped there was (an afterlife), so she could permanently be in his …

  He claimed this technique worked. I fear it sometimes did. Girls will fall for anything.

  After he had dressed again in his own clothes, I made sure Galene fed him. Then, while she grumbled about the number of lost souls I was encouraging, he twiddled on his flute to flatter her cooking, practised his Didius smile on her, then took his leave.

  Graecina, jealous that I was sitting in the kitchen with Galene, then came to mention a letter. As it was addressed to me, she had given it to Tiberius. ‘You’d better hope it’s not from one of my lovers!’ I snorted.

  I saw Katutis, the exemplary secretary, watching with a derisive smile. I wagged a finger to call him over, because if someone had written to me formally it might require a formal answer.

  The note was from the palace – from Philippus, not Trebianus. Even before I knew the contents, I wondered if after Dolazebol had left our house he had taken himself over to the Palatine to complain of harassment.

  Tiberius handed the letter to me unopened, though I knew he expected me to read it in his company, then tell him what it was about. We had no secrets. Well, none he knew of. In any case, I could see he was bored to tears and longing for something he could apply brains to.

  It was short. Polite but clear. It thanked me for my services, stating baldly that nothing more was required. I read it aloud. We all pulled faces. ‘Oh, glory! It’s the big hands-off.’

  I asked Katutis for his professional opinion. He composed correspondence as well as taking down dictation. When we had found him in Alexandria − where he had latched onto us − he was in the faded long tunic worn by most of the population there, demanding attention like the kind of street beggar you desperately try to shake off. He had kept popping up, clinging like a crazy barnacle, until he had done a good turn, which compelled my father to employ him. Only then did it transpire he was educated, a trained scribe.

  Katutis bowed, acknowledging my courtesy in asking, though not too grateful. Now he lived in Rome he affected hauteur. He had come to this madhouse from a more ancient, more sophisticated society and must endure our upstart ways nobly. He managed. He knew that with Falco and Helena he had landed himself in the softest of swansdown options.

  ‘Flavia Albia, we can assume they have written, rather than speaking, in order to avoid awkward confrontation.’

  ‘They think I shall argue.’

  ‘I think so too! Interpreting the words, these compliments to your skill really mean even though you have caused us a severe headache by your intervention this morning, while the elegant thank-you intimates so now cease meddling before you get us into any more trouble.’

  I looked at Tiberius. ‘Darling? Warning me off almost suggests it is Philippus who is hand in hand with the Parthians.’

  He shook his head. ‘Too crude. No, if Dolazebol has complained, they must respond. Telling him they have terminated your contract is a way to keep him quiet. I imagine Philippus is merely assigned as an official minder. Abascantus is far too lofty, so he has passed day-to-day liaison – fielding complaints − to someone he sees as more junior.’

  ‘Philippus may still be unaware Trebianus commissioned me … Should I contact him for different instructions?’ I wondered.

  ‘If you ask, then he will feel obliged to hand you the official line,’ Tiberius answered. ‘If you don’t ask, well …’ Nothing coloured his voice; he left decisions to me.

  ‘He can say he assumed I obeyed Philippus. But if I am willing to go on, he can leave me to run …’

  ‘So will you ignore the letter-writers, Flavia Albia?’ Katutis asked, clearly relishing this.

  I pulled a face.

  Tiberius Manlius, my dear husband, allowed himself to smile. For me, he had as much subtlety, not to mention as much delight in strong women, as anyone from Alexandria – or even the Didii with their wicked charm. Personally, I thought him a match even for a bunch of Parthian envoys.

  I had been married only for five days. I was still in love.

  I took his hand gently. This confirmed what I was going to do. He must trust me and not worry.

  Having an inquiry aborted was common in our business. My father even liked this stage. It usually proved we had strayed too near important evidence. Someone was agitated. Someone needed to prevent us going further before we tipped the embarrassing truth out into the open.

  If I made no move to contact Trebianus, I gained some leeway, though there was a snag. Trebianus might have to stop paying me. Philippus and Abascantus might find out and force him to. Unfunded, that would be the end of us paying the fresco painter, not to mention the baker, fishmonger, greengrocer, cheese and cold meat suppliers, doctor, housekeeper and – assuming there was one for this house – night-soil collector. I made a note to have Graecina check whether we were drained by a working sewer, a crucial point.

  I could give the task one more day, I decided. (That old delusion.) It was, after all, a question of right and wrong. The safety and good of our empire, our city, our people, even possibly our emperor − though on the whole I discounted him.

  I reassessed my position. I could no longer rely on the bureaucrats for support. Assistance was officially withdrawn. I needed to call on my own resources.

  In my years as an informer I had gathered contacts. I was already using my family. If you are wise, you also assemble a collection of possibles, people you know, or people you have heard of, who occupy some special position or have specialist knowledge. These are people you may never contact – but who exist in your subconscious for future consideration.

  The aim of my task, both for Philippus and Trebianus, had been to pinpoint a traitor. I wanted to discover more about the current freedmen who worked on the Palatine. I would ask someone who had no vested interest now, but who had worked for the palace in the past. I had mentioned her to Marcia. She worked under disguise as a dancer but was a professional assassin, once secretly used by both the old chief spy Anacrites and by Claudius Laeta, father to Philippus.

  She might tell me to get lost but she might help, if I asked her the right way. So I would go to see Perella.

  38

  Perella had been stupendous with her tambourine and foot-stamping. She had good facial lines, which she emphasised by drawing back her hair severely, as Spanish dancers do until they suddenly let it out and swirl their shining locks around as part of their act. When she let me into her tiny apartment on the Esquiline Hill, she still stood erect and moved gracefully, yet she was slow. Her dancing career must have wreaked havoc physically.

  I would have liked Perella’s opinion on Squilla’s long-legged floaty walk. I could guess what she might say of Squilla generally. No woman who builds a career on hard work and talent will ever compliment a much younger one who uses the shallow gift of her looks.

  Perella sat me down and moved around, gathering the paraphernalia of hospitality. I guessed this was to give her time, a chance to assess me. Assessment could work both ways. I watched her putting together a tray and cups, patiently waiting until she was ready to talk.

  We had met once before, when I was just a girl. She had come to pick Falco’s brains as to why Anacrites had disappeared. It was so top secret that Falco never told her. So between Perella and my family any habit of sharing information had limits. That would guide me now.

  My parents and various uncles had last seen Perella at work in southern Britain, dancing and acting as an imperial agent. It was the year they had found me in Londinium. They all still spoke with awe of how she performed: a woman who looked like a grandmother, using her body with enough art to surpass any pretty youngster. Her beautiful movements, her spiritual intensity, her experience had quite silenced a barful of hard-drinking tribal trash and gnarly traders who had travelled the world and thought themselves too canny to be impressed by anything.

  My relatives also spoke of brutal deaths. Perella often used a slim knife to cut throats. It was a bloody way to die, but she was quick and silent. She would stake out her victim; move in for the assassination; disappear. In the panic after a horrible corpse was discovered, few people ever realised who had done the deed. If, rarely, a manhunt occurred, she outwitted pursuit. An escape route was always set up in advance.