‘This is my boy, Plotios. He has his uses. Plotios is going to tell us what he did with the documents written by that crazy Jew from Alexandria. I’m talking about Simon. You remember. Give it up, Plotios!’

  Plotios remembered. ‘The palace people took all the copying off him, Princeps, then our team brought the scrolls in for expert scrutiny. The papyrus was very nice quality, but the writings stank. So you had one of your chats with him – not too bad, he didn’t cry for long. Simon wanted to compose a set of prophecies for his people, to inspire them. “Ho, ho, Simon! If that means inspiring them to rebel against Rome, you can think again, you piece of slime!” you shouted at him. He whimpered that he was sorry but his God had made him do it. You sent him off to Ostia to be took home to Egypt.’

  ‘Why did I do that, I wonder?’

  The Princeps seemed to use the slave as a human aide-memoire. Plotios happily expounded: ‘He said he was just a historian, Princeps. His parents had needed him to work on their farm. He loved being a scholar so he sold himself into slavery. Then they used the money to employ a farm manager. Because he had education, Simon was brought to Rome to get a better price for him, so he ended up in the palace. You said that was very touching, so Simon could be sent back and sold as a history teacher in a school. That was, if anyone wanted to buy him; if not, he was going to the Egyptian stone quarries. First, you had the palace documents all burned in the yard, for security reasons. You made him watch, as a bit of fun. Even the ashes were buried after.’

  ‘I remember. We gave the Sibylline copies an exceedingly good funeral,’ Titus said to me. ‘So that’s our gen on Simon, Albia.’

  I had been promised something to look at; I waited. Plotios was dying to say more. His commander let him jump up and down for a time, then slowly turned his gaze upon the slave. ‘So what’s bugging you, my excitable little ant?’

  ‘You did send the lads to search his sleeping cubicle, Princeps. They came back with a bunch of notes you didn’t like the look of. Another set.’

  ‘A search?’ Titus pretended to be surprised. ‘That was extremely efficient of me!’

  Plotios told me the Princeps had decreed that these other notes were rubbish. ‘They were only written on one side, so I kept the papyrus in case it came in handy for writing something on the back one day.’

  ‘That’s very economical. Was it good-quality papyrus as well?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but not the same. For copying the Sibylline Books for the Emperor, the secretariat issued top-grade Augustan, the new Claudian type with stronger cross threads so that ink won’t blob through. This is standard for Domitian’s correspondence. Simon’s notes were on Livian papyrus; it’s still very nice, but a grade lower.’

  ‘You know your stationery, Plotios!’

  He blushed. ‘It came to us a bit discoloured because Simon slept with it tied under his tunic.’

  Titus acted out horror and disgust. ‘Not in front of this delicate young lady, boy! Albia doesn’t want to think about a nasty Egyptian scribe’s sweaty chest.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  I applied my woman-of-mystery face, as if I had inspected a few nasty male chests in my time. To a degree, it was true. I turned back to Titus. ‘I am thinking that this renegade could never acquire quality papyrus for himself. He was a slave, he had no money.’

  ‘Agreed. Unless he had previously pinched material from another high-end job, somebody gave him extra sheets – specifically to write up secret notes of the Sibylline Books,’ pronounced Nearly-Nine-Gongs sonorously. ‘Right! See if we still possess this seditious crud, my Plotios.’

  Plotios led us to a tall cupboard, housed in a small, smelly anteroom. It was crammed with whatever he had saved up in case it came in handy. The moment he opened the cupboard door, out fell stacks of confiscated documents. He squatted among the jumble of papyrus sheets, note tablets, maps and scrolls, a huge haul from people who had been dragged to the Castra as dangerous social elements. I preferred not to think what had happened to them all. It was unlikely they were released back onto the streets. Some would have been philosophers; I tried not to worry about Marius.

  Finding his way through the piles, Plotios produced our evidence. In triumph, he held up a few individual sheets of papyrus. ‘Simon’s cubicle notes!’

  The Princeps told his slave he need not concern himself with this frippery but could stay behind to tidy up his cupboard. Plotios looked resigned to being left out of any excitement.

  Titus and I huddled in his office to inspect the notes. A long-in-the-tooth soldier can read, though this one held back, mainly letting me point out the damning parts. He was at ease with rosters, passwords and letters to the commissariat. Religious exhortation threw him. Apocalyptic mysticism was not to my taste either, but I plunged in.

  I speed-read, trying to summarise. ‘Talk about indigestible – it gives you worse wind than onions. The first part is a lurid vision of world history. Wild stuff. He’s got Chronos, Titans and Lapiths, and the children of Gaia and Uranus. He moves from myth to reality, insulting nations merrily: “But then shall come the Greeks, proud and profane people”, followed by Alexander’s lot: “confusion and disorder, filling the world with evils, through base-living love of gain, and that in many lands, but in Macedonia most of all”. Excellent: the blondes get it. “The terrible Phrygians shall all perish, and evil shall come upon Troy. Evil shall come to the Persians and Assyrians and all Egypt and Libya, upon the Ethiopians, on the Carians and Pamphylians a ruin of exile, and to all men alike.”’

  ‘Bugger me.’ The Princeps must have been reading over my shoulder more than I had thought because he had picked up on Simon’s joy at destroyed cities and rivers surging with blood. ‘He does like his ruin and evil. He seemed pretty meek when he was talking to me.’

  I could imagine a reason for that.

  ‘What’s going on here, girl? He been weeping over his pen?’

  There was a smudged ring on the papyrus. ‘My mother would smack somebody’s hand, Titus … Either the scribe or someone he had with him has stood a wet-bottomed beaker there.’

  So who could have been looking over his shoulder in the way Titus was with me? Whom had I once seen placing his fancy cup on a scroll as a place-marker? …

  I was considering the scribe’s own motive. ‘Simon seems very driven: “When my soul ceased from the hymn inspired, then I besought the great father that I might rest from my labour; but again the voice of the great God rose up in my breast, and bade me prophesy over every land, and to kings, and to instruct them of things which should come to pass.”’

  The Princeps snorted. ‘That was why I let him go. If he survives in Alexandria, just let him try instructing kings about what will come to pass. He can sing of that until he chokes. No big prick in a diadem will listen.’

  It could be so, though scared rulers like Domitian tend to pay attention to prophecies. I moved on through the lines until I reached Simon’s doom-laden view of modern times: From Asia a king shall come, lifting up a mighty sword, in countless ships, walking on the wet ways of the sea, and cutting through a high-peaked mountain; trembling, Asia shall receive him back, as he flees for refuge from the war.

  To the men of Jerusalem also shall come an evil storm-blast of war from Italy, and shall lay waste the great temple of God, when putting their trust in folly they shall cast away godliness and do hateful deeds of blood before the temple.

  ‘So Nero at last. He is trying to cut the Isthmus at Corinth – an unfinished project that I have seen, Princeps, by the way. Then we get the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. Which I have not seen.’ Father’s brother was killed in Judaea; Falco would not go there.

  ‘Arse-about-tip,’ sneered the Princeps. ‘The temple was Titus Caesar. Nero was well dead by then. This is it, girl – “And then shall a great king from Italy flee away like a deserter, unseen, unheard of, beyond the ford of Euphrates, after he has polluted his hands with the hateful murder of his mother, doing the deed with wicked hand. And many around his throne shall drench the soil of Rome with their blood.” That’s Agrippina paying the price for hosting Nero in her womb, thanks for that, Madam, so the bastard murdered her. And it’s all the other victims Nero killed.’

  ‘Then Simon dodges back to the east: “To Syria shall come a Roman chieftain, who shall burn with fire the temple of Jerusalem, slay many of the Jews, and lay in ruin that great land of broad fields.” Anyone can see old Simon is a Jew himself. And now look, Titus, Caesar’s punishment for it – the eruption of Mount Vesuvius: “But when from a cleft in the earth, in the land of Italy, a flame of fire shoots out its light to the broad heaven, to burn up many cities and slay their men, and a great cloud of fiery ashes shall fill the air, and sparks fiery red shall fall from Heaven, then should men know the wrath of the God of Heaven, because they destroyed the blameless people of the godly. Then shall come to the west the strife of war stirred up, and the exiled man of Rome, lifting up a mighty sword, crossing the Euphrates with many tens of thousands.” So at last this “exiled man of Rome” is Nero, brought back to life or never died. And, Titus, he is heading this way!’

  The Princeps, who would make a good audience for reading out an adventure story, shuddered. He was so eager to hear the rest he did not bother to waste time saying, ‘Bugger me!’

  The tenor changed. Ancient lore and fiery prophetics became a practical list of qualities to look for during an employment interview − assuming you were head-hunting to fill the throne of Rome. ‘Princeps, now we have the recipe for False Neroism.’

  ‘Catch me a centaur and strap a dildo on him! Albia, hand me that piece of shit!’

  The Princeps Peregrinorum took up the papyrus sheet in question between a finger and thumb, as if it was something even he found unhygienic. I now listened with my hands clasped around my knees while he sonorously declared the phrases:

  Great one flees Italy like a runaway slave

  Maternal murder and other crimes, sins against spouses

  Cutting the Isthmus

  Much bloodshed for the Roman throne, wise and clever ruler returns to overthrow successor

  Brandishing a huge spear

  Crossing the Euphrates

  Playing theatricals, honey-sweet song in melodious voice

  Lurking with the Medes and Persians

  War in the west

  Champion of the east

  Whole creation shaken and kings perish

  Destroy every land and conquer all

  War to end all war, eternal peace for the godly

  Titus was innocently appalled. ‘Disgusting. This is really supposed to be the False Nero, him we had in our cell?’

  I sat up straighter, breathing slowly. ‘Someone chose that man and prepared him for the role …’

  ‘They didn’t choose very well, then.’ Titus jerked with anger, throwing the papyrus onto a table. ‘They prepared him very badly indeed! He was piss-poor. Anyway, this twaddle is no good for Rome. I’m a soldier. What will I do if another Nero rises up and they have a war to end all wars?’

  ‘Enjoy a peaceful retirement with your lovely lady,’ I suggested gently. He blinked as if he could not take that in.

  These notes of Simon’s had started off for what he called the blameless people of the godly. As far as I knew, it had never been suggested that any of the three False Neros had appealed for support from the Jews. Not even back during the Jewish Rebellion.

  ‘Princeps, I don’t know how much comes direct from the Sibylline Books, or how much is Simon’s own version to inspire Jewish readers, but this particular list has been prepared for Rome.’

  ‘It stinks,’ Titus agreed. ‘The palace traitor was creating a new emperor to foist on us.’

  ‘He still is. The Nero who died in your cell may never have known much about any prophecies he was meant to fulfil. For the traitor, validating his new Nero is essential. With this list he can always prepare a better candidate.’

  I could see the commander growing more nervous as I spoke. He certainly followed my argument. ‘The turncoat wants to put his puppet in power, then he can open up the Sibylline Books, crying, “Look, my Nero fulfils the sacred prophecies!”’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ decided Titus. ‘It was hilarious at the time but one Nero was enough.’

  A thought struck me. ‘Copying the books all went wrong. Someone exposed it. Princeps sweetie, who was the palace supervisor who caught out Simon?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘I hoped you would never ask me that, Flavia Albia.’ He confessed awkwardly, ‘I really got him wrong, I’m afraid … It was that Paternus.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Bit of a complicated history there. When I did my old inquiry into Simon, at that time Paternus worked for the fellow you know, Philippus. Philippus was in charge of keeping the Sibylline Books safe while Domitian had them out on loan.’

  ‘Paternus was his man?’ I was astounded. ‘Are we talking about the same person? Paternus who, you thought, poisoned the False Nero?’

  ‘That Paternus. And he did do the poisoning.’ Titus spelled things out. I should never forget that his position as Princeps meant he was thought to be bright and a shrewd judge of men. ‘Two alternatives, Flavia Albia: either your Philippus is the collaborator and has been all along.’

  ‘Hard to believe! In that case why did he let Paternus haul up the scribe for moonlighting?’

  ‘Exactly. Or Claudius Philippus is straight enough, but afterwards Paternus began working for someone else. By the time he was assigned to my Castra, he had somehow been turned. Presumably with money. I always thought Paternus was a nasty piece of work; he must have been available to anyone who paid him.’

  ‘So when the False Nero was brought here, Paternus was already on the spot, working for the traitor? It confirms what I have always thought: the traitor has to be someone who knows what the inner council is planning. How long had Paternus been deployed here?’

  ‘Oh,’ Titus grumbled, accepting my theory, ‘just about as long as it must have taken to bring that prisoner to Rome from the east.’

  Fairly sympathetically, I said, ‘Not your fault, Princeps. But it’s a shame this Paternus ended up drowned in the Tiber. Otherwise we could have asked him!’

  ‘I am sorry we lost him,’ admitted the Princeps. ‘When he was first assigned here, I thought it was a reward for his honesty over Simon.’ He could not help seeing his Castra as a plum posting. ‘I didn’t like him, but I don’t care for half the shoddy characters I am sent. I have to hone them up to my standards. When the False Nero died, knowing Paternus had been a palace man, I wondered. Half of them are bent. I pulled him straight in here for a scouring. He had all the right answers – but he did a bunk straight after. It would have been better if I had kept hold of him, but he had denied being the poisoner and I was still looking for evidence.’ Titus picked his teeth. ‘I know what you are thinking, girl. The river, drowning him, that must have been his paymaster’s solution. It was not me who put him in there.’

  When we had first met, he would never have dreamed of being so open. Nor would I have so readily believed him.

  I hid a smile as I realised this is what spies try to achieve, of course. They charm their way in. People stop noticing their presence. They come and go, invisibly part of whatever is happening …

  I had engineered that here. Titus was now my crony. Even so, I still did not take him at face value. He was a soldier. I never would.

  ‘What are we going to do, Titus?’

  ‘Sit tight. Don’t tell anyone we worked it out. Watch what happens.’

  We were such good pals that as I left Titus asked if I wanted to go out for a drink with him. ‘Nothing heavy, don’t worry, we both have commitments …’ It sounded harmless, though with wine, temptation becomes inevitable for some people (not me). I declined politely, reminding my new friend that indeed I was committed: my new husband, the aedile, had been struck by lightning so I ought to go home and spend time with him.

  The Princeps went along with this, though he did insist on walking with me. He came so far I felt apprehensive he would take me right the way home and want to have lunch with us. Somehow this loomed as worse than venturing to a bar on my own with him.

  However, he said he was going for a haircut at the popular Ad Tonsores, near the top end of the Circus Maximus. He had heaved off his breastplate so as to pass more or less incognito through the streets, though his bearing was so military he might as well not have bothered.

  We had gone as far as the starting gates, when a race must have ended. The noise inside the Circus was still tumultuous. The exterior gates flew open, then a couple of chariots rattled out at high speed. Their factions were the reds and the whites, and neither had the winner’s palms; still inside, the greens, blues, golds and purples were either shipwrecked in splinters, or one must be a winner parading in triumph. I had no family reason to support the emerging teams; nor did the Princeps seem interested.

  These were sore losers, tearing off in different directions. It must have been a quadriga race. Four strong horses effortlessly pulled each flimsy wooden chariot, where the driver had almost nowhere firm to place his feet and the backless box he stood up in rested almost on the axle. Those drivers needed balance, as well as skill and courage. In their helmets, very short tunics and wide stomach bands, equipped with whips and curved knives in case they fell and had to cut their reins, I could see they were still fired up after seven laps of dodging and danger. Their horses swept by, ears pricked up, awash with sweat, each team of four beautifully matched. Bouncing behind, the weightless chariots almost took off flying. One careered so close, I jumped back across the pavement to avoid injury.

  If the Circus was full, and if they had reached the lunch break, a hundred thousand racegoers or more could spew out. I needed to hurry to the Aventine side before the crowds became impassable. Saying goodbye to the Princeps, I pushed on towards the Trigeminal Gate.