Augustus, as Pontifex Maximus, transferred the books from the Capitol to his personal Temple of Apollo on the Palatine: right here.

  Trebianus pointed to the base of the statue of Apollo Citharoidus. ‘There they are!’ His voice was hollow, his tone almost awed.

  The books were in gold containers on shelves in the statue base, behind a grille, under lock and key. ‘So who gets to consult them?’

  ‘The custodians. The Emperor, if he believes occasion demands. It would be conducted very formally, a religious observance, with the custodians present.’

  ‘Could you or Philippus look at them?’

  ‘No.’ Nor me, then.

  ‘Abascantus?’

  ‘Not even him.’

  ‘So is Squilla’s message a cheat?’

  Trebianus writhed. Apollo Citharoidus gazed down at him, as if perplexed at the way he was tangling his extraordinary limbs.

  ‘I have, Flavia Albia, discussed this question with one of the custodians. No one officially consulted the books recently and he will not let me see them. However, when I explained my reason for wanting to examine the books, its importance for Rome, I was told that at the start of the year, Domitian was extremely exercised by the Saturninus revolt, following upon the episode of the False Nero. He had a secret copy made so he could consult the books in private since to do so openly would cause public alarm.’

  I huffed. ‘So much for owning a private copy of the Sibylline Books is illegal.’

  Trebianus shook his head. ‘You tell that to the Emperor!’

  I was terse. ‘Did he take his set to Pannonia with his military kit – or has he left it behind under his pillow?’

  When Trebianus would not answer, I was even more brutal. ‘Trebianus, whatever the traitor has read there, we need to know. I won’t incite you to bring a crowbar and break into the real book cache, but if the duplicate oracles are in Rome, we have to look at them.’

  41

  What? Oracular prophecies?

  I had never involved myself with this kind of Roman toshery before but, oh joy, a revered collection of Greek verse was relevant to my inquiry, so among obscure old utterances I now had to poke. If I ever told my father, he would go nuts.

  My husband was a pious Roman – and a reader. He would want me to get a sneaky squint at the Sibyl’s hoary hexameters. For him, this would be even more interesting than his home encyclopaedia.

  I am forbidden to provide detail. Officially only one set of Sibylline Books exists, secure in its specially constructed vault beneath the sandalled feet of Apollo Citharoidus. If another set temporarily existed, if it could be accessed by someone with privileged connections, and if a large enough sweetener was therefore provided to the stately chamberlain Parthenius, keeper of Domitian’s secrets, plumper of his pillows and (unbeknown to us at the time) a future assassin, don’t expect me ever to confess I was there.

  The Books were dire. I would have preferred to sit listening for hours to my dear husband reading aloud the Table of Contents from his Pliny.

  Trebianus took me to Parthenius, a wise, steady, understanding man, as he had to be if he dealt intimately with Domitian. Trebianus explained that he was investigating a possible breach of security at the highest level. That is the best way to make high officials jump. The sweetener, which I witnessed being handed over, clinched it.

  ‘Oh, more dirty rumours about Abascantus!’ commented Parthenius, with a light laugh. He had a cultured accent, yet common vowels were surreptitiously lurking. When I was brought to Rome I had had to learn to speak nicely myself, so I notice this. Parthenius had been a slave. They had tidied up his delivery but, suave as he was, his ear was not quite good enough to fool me.

  It was unclear whether he sided with those who held the suspicions or with their bumptious object. He neither accused the narrow-eyed of envy nor saw Abascantus as a much-wronged man of talent. He took no view. Parthenius was an even better civil servant than those in the secretariats. Besides, he had seen it all before. He would observe events with a neutral eye. He certainly did not appear to be shocked. It struck me that possibly Parthenius himself had warned Domitian to send Abascantus on gardening leave; he was one person who would have the facility to send letters covertly, even when his master was abroad. But if Claudius Philippus had discussed his fears about a collaborator, the chamberlain showed nothing in front of me and the Parthia-watcher.

  With us, he gave every appearance of taking a hands-off attitude. Even then, I felt it was deceptive. Parthenius involved himself all right. This was the man who would one day stage-manage a successful murder. He was such a good actor, he made the real spies look crude.

  Parthenius chose to give us a tour of the imperial quarters, saying, ‘Let’s go into the inner sanctum for privacy.’ He unlocked handsome doors, several in succession. He led us down beautiful corridors until we reached the Emperor’s own bedroom. It smelt like a room that had been uninhabited for months. Dead flies lay on the floor.

  None of this grand suite was homely. The large marble-heavy gilded room seemed to be Domitian’s own, not a marital space; there was no sense of his wife. If he wanted intercourse, he must summon Domitia Longina – or some other selected unfortunate – to him. My impression was that marital relations tended to happen infrequently these days. They had lost a child in infancy and there was no sign of another coming.

  Domitia’s opinion of their situation was not on record. In that sense, she was a good wife to him. Knowing about abstinence, I told myself to learn from our wonderful empress. While Manlius Faustus was not himself, I, too, must stay loyally button-lipped.

  The room contained a niche with a lararium, the shrine currently bare of offerings. The candelabra were monsters, standing taller than I was. Domitian had statues, none of which I would want in my bedroom though they were all fine art; my father would have happily accepted them for auction and made a killing. I assumed the absence of clothes-chests meant that huge closets of robes, togas and uniforms were kept elsewhere; a choice of outfits would be carried in as required. Other things were in the care of accessory- and jewel-keepers – plus, if rumours were true, a trusted wig-master. Fresh wreaths must arrive from florists on a daily basis. Domitian had been offered a supply of Egyptian roses even in winter, but had declined, saying we grew more here than all the gardens of Memphis and Alexandria.

  ‘Well, this is a privilege!’ Trebianus was clearly impressed by the monstrous bed with its bronze fittings and finials, ivory-clad legs, big fat cabochons of precious stones in rare colorations. As we wandered about like tourists, I was more interested in a fancy corona of luscious drapes. Poets begged Parthenius to slip their latest collection beneath Domitian’s pillow as suggested bedtime reading, so I wondered if the Sibylline Books were kept there. I hopped on a big footstool and naughtily lifted up one tightly stuffed bolster, so I saw the famous dagger that was kept under it, in case our Master was ever jumped by a violent intruder. I glanced at Parthenius, quickly dropping the bolster. Parthenius simply gave me a knowing smile.

  Some years afterwards I remembered this. When Domitian was eventually killed, Parthenius had removed his dagger’s blade …

  Now, Domitian was away and, as I had been told when I interviewed the two widows, so was the Empress. Nobody was about, not even servants. In the hush of this deep palace interior, Parthenius felt safe to speak. At the end of last December, with rebellion threatening, the Sibylline Books had been brought here discreetly for Domitian to examine. He used his bedroom as a daytime office, away from other eyes.

  ‘Apart from being in Greek and their ghastly versification, the prophecy was extremely long and obscure.’ The chamberlain managed to imply that obscurity went down poorly. Some of this was snobbery about anything intellectual, though I gathered his real beef was the terrible text. I liked Parthenius; I liked his attitude. ‘Our Master has a well-known love of poetry. But he reads with immense concentration.’ I wondered if Domitian was a backward reader. I bet those old family friends, the Vettuleni, could say. Back in Falacrina, had little Domitian needed extra coaching? Was our Master and God a slow learner?

  ‘The Sibylline Books could not be skimmed in a hurry; the custodians wanted them back, of course,’ Trebianus prompted.

  ‘Indeed. So we were to have them copied for studying at leisure. Then the Emperor had to dash away to the Saturninus revolt. We had begun, and might have continued, but we discovered the scribe had a private agenda. As Domitian wasn’t here, I put the work on hold.’

  Trebianus jumped. ‘Who was the scribe?’

  ‘Your colleague Philippus assigned him. I don’t remember his name. I could find out for you …’ Parthenius slowed down suggestively.

  ‘Need-to-know basis?’ Trebianus understood the code. ‘I can ask Philippus, if it turns out to be important.’

  Parthenius made a graceful gesture. Again, the style revealed his origins in Oriental slavery. ‘Thank you. He came to us routinely from the pool of scribes. He had been vetted, must have been, after being picked out for the quality of his handwriting. He cannot have expected this particular assignment; he probably thought I wanted him for inventories.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ I interposed.

  ‘It turned out he was a Jew from Alexandria, with hidden religious motives. As soon as he was given the task, he saw it as an opportunity to create his own biased version of the prophecies. It would be for subversive purposes – though not necessarily a plot against the Emperor. He was a religious fanatic. He wanted to threaten his own people with plague, war and pestilence, then exhort them to good living.’

  ‘Unspeakable!’ I murmured satirically.

  Parthenius hid a smile. ‘Fortunately a supervisor noticed what he was up to. I called an immediate halt to the copying, then packed the original books straight back to the Temple of Apollo. The scribe was dealt with.’

  ‘Who did that?’ asked Trebianus, a professional question. I let him do the asking.

  ‘The Princeps Peregrinorum had his team investigate. The bodge was all sorted quietly. Thankfully, once the Saturninus revolt was crushed, our Master never felt he needed to consult further, so he has not had to know. He does worry so.’

  ‘A lot of your time goes on sparing him anxiety?’ Trebianus seemed fascinated by the workings of the inner imperial circle. Perhaps he used Domitian’s foibles to compare with whatever he knew of the King of Kings in Parthia. Certainly an ongoing wish to assassinate our ruler was a thread we had in common.

  ‘I try to ease his mind.’ Whenever Domitian was anxious, he became paranoid and violent. Rome owed Parthenius more than people knew. ‘Now, if you have no further questions …’ Parthenius felt he had given us enough privileged interaction. He subtly steered us out. Then each door was carefully locked behind us. The imperial suite stayed out of bounds to most people, even when its noble occupant was a thousand miles away.

  Trebianus was gibbering over our glimpse of Domitian’s private life. I could not stand that kind of adulation, so I made excuses. He went for one of his three-hour office lunches. He thought I was going home.

  Not so, easily fooled handler! I walked down to the Forum, skirted the Amphitheatre, washed my hands in the Sweating Fountain on the way; I felt sticky with élite dust. Then I nipped along to the Castra to quiz its Princeps. Trebianus would probably do this in due course, but I put myself ahead of him. Intrigue was not confined to palace secretaries.

  Titus was polishing his desk. Maybe a suspect or a chastised subordinate had leaked blood on it. ‘You again! People are talking. My ladyfriend is getting jealous.’

  ‘Assure her, my friend, I am trustworthy. I plan to wait at least a month after my wedding before I start looking around again … Now, tell me quick – what was the story on a scribe you took care of, after the perverting-of-Sibylline-oracles fiasco?’

  Nearly-Nine-Gongs screwed up his eyes with suspicion. ‘Are you allowed to hear about that?’

  ‘Absolutely. Special clearance. I have come to you straight from the exalted Parthenius. What an impressive operator. Such efficiency. I bet he personally wipes up the vomit when the Emperor has had too much to drink.’ In truth, the joyless Domitian was virtually teetotal. ‘I hope he’s not called Parthenius because he originates in Parthia …’ It seemed unlikely. Wars in the far east had never been successful enough; more often they captured us. ‘Still, he’s a Roman smoothie now. Top class. He told me you know what the anarchist scribe was up to.’

  ‘Parthenius said?’ It must be rare for a rough commander to admire a cushion-plumping chamberlain, but Parthenius had achieved this feat. Presumably it was because he had decided the Princeps Peregrinorum was the right man to summon in an emergency. Titus was a simple enough centurion; he approved of men who approved of him.

  I sat on his little slave’s stool, smoothing my skirts down neatly. ‘Parthenius told me it was an Egyptian from the general copy pool. The man had ideas of his own?’

  ‘Religious nut.’ Titus did not need to spit: his tone was dismissive enough. ‘The private staff did their best, according to what they know of security. Your friend Philippus had devised a routine. They kept the scribbler locked in a room on his own, only let him out to sleep. Food on a tray, bucket for piss. Gave him clean papyrus daily, confiscated his pens and ink jars every night. Counted the sheets when he finished. Locked up his notes.’

  That sounded efficient. ‘His work was supervised? That was how they exposed him?’

  Titus nodded. ‘He was taking his own papyrus in. One day they searched him when he left, found he had wrapped some notes around his body under his tunic. The supervisor took one look at the writings, went all heebie-jeebie, then the scribe copped it. Parthenius was shitting marble blocks when I got there. I pretty well had to throw a bucket of water on the supervisor. What a party. Amateur!’

  I gazed at the derisive Princeps, pretending to admire his expertise. ‘So what happened next, great one? You and your lively boys held the scribe here? Did you torture him? Was it horrible? I don’t suppose you still have him dangling from chains somewhere?’

  ‘You don’t suppose right.’ Titus enjoyed disappointing me. Me, a woman who intended to wait a whole month before cheating on her bridegroom.

  He stretched, easing his brawny shoulders. Our relationship had reached a point where he felt secure confiding in me. The way he saw it, no other commander would relax with me like this, but they were hidebound fools, whereas he, subtle and flexible, had seen how to exploit my potential.

  ‘Cough up, Princeps!’ I cajoled good-humouredly. ‘What did Alfius wrench out of the penman?’

  ‘I didn’t bother with that. Stuff the Alfius paraphernalia. That quivering scribe would have foamed at the mouth and died of terror. I had a little chat myself. The fellow was harmless. He didn’t start out as a secret intriguer. If that copying job hadn’t fallen into his lap, he would still be making laundry lists, no nuisance to anyone.’

  I was surprised. ‘You are taking a liberal attitude!’

  ‘He was a Jew. My lady comes from Judaea. Lovely woman. Fantastic cook. Wonderful sense of family. She said it sounded as if he just liked religious raving; sitting all day on his own in the Emperor’s anteroom must have gone to his head. Solitary confinement isn’t for everyone. Well, I know that: we use it here when it’s the right way forward. So she said, “Just take his dangerous literature away and put him on a boat back to Alexandria. Let him go home to be a scholar.”’

  ‘That was back in January?’

  ‘February.’

  ‘But he is long gone. Well, in case this mess goes as far as sending someone after him, can you remember his name?’

  Titus laughed. ‘We don’t do names. Anyone we get in my camp is too secret to identify. Our code for him was Simon. That’s Jewish.’

  ‘True.’ I changed my tone. I made it significant: ‘So did you, Princeps, gain any idea that “Simon” was in the pay of the palace traitor?’

  Titus pulled up short. I watched him considering this dangerous new suggestion. I hoped it would not occasion any loss of trust for the woman who had taught him to be more liberal. She who had said, ‘Send Simon home, he’s harmless.’

  ‘Nobody asked me to look into that.’

  ‘No one knew. Assuming it was true,’ I said.

  ‘I thought he was a loner.’

  ‘Perhaps he was,’ I reassured him. Somewhere along the line I had taken his welfare into my keeping. Now I hated to see old Titus looking nervous.

  ‘Anything he did, it seemed to me, was only because he was a complete crackpot, Albia.’

  ‘He was. Don’t worry about it. Well, not about Simon. The traitor is something else. Word is, he took an unseemly interest in the Sibylline Books. Although there seems to be no prior link from him to Simon, I think Simon was gathering information for him.’

  If the books were locked up in Domitian’s private quarters, and the scribe worked alone, how else would the collaborator manage to consult them? Philippus had been in charge of security and we could feel sure the collaborator did not want him to notice his interest. That is, assuming Philippus himself was not the traitor.

  I sighed gently. ‘Is this all you have for me?’

  ‘That’s all,’ agreed Titus, pleasantly. He left it long enough for me to travel past any expectation of suspense. He liked to play with people. He waited until I was about to go home. ‘Unless,’ he said, with a betraying gleam, ‘you want me to ask my filing lad if he still has the documents we confiscated?’

  42

  The public slave who acted as runabout was summoned, a hairy mite with an old oversized tunic of his master’s tied in folds around him. His normal sleepy look disappeared as soon as he learned he was needed as an archive clerk. He was a lad of a hundred jobs; archiving seemed an activity he was fond of. I suppose no one else took any interest. He could get on with it on his own, with time to think and no fear of a beating.