At one point I glanced back. I saw that the camp commander had not gone towards the popular barbers’ quarter, as he had said he would. Instead he had turned back at the Forum Boarium, the meat market. His unmistakably solid figure was now heading towards the Palatine.

  Who was he going to see there?

  43

  Nobody home.

  My head was so full of godless nations being laid waste by war and the blameless godly being exhorted that it took me a while to understand this unexpected hush. Had pestilence carried off all my people?

  I laid down the packages of lunch ingredients that I had bought on the way home. Because of the daily races, there had been plenty of snack-sellers milling around outside as I came by the Circus. I wondered whether Tiberius had been summoned to the Games, and had taken everyone, but discounted that. As the aedile’s wife, I would have been obliged to tag along.

  I opened the door from the courtyard to the builders’ yard, but no one was there either, only the kennelled watchdog. He woke up, eyed me suspiciously, experimented with a growl, remembered he knew me, changed the menace to half-hearted tail wags, then put his nose between his paws and went to sleep again.

  I returned to the courtyard, where I sat on the dolphin bench. Fortunately, a key rasped; after two attempts to turn it, voices announced the return of Tiberius and Dromo. Tiberius waved but went straight upstairs. Dromo came and told me his master was changing into a fresh tunic.

  ‘I got him to go to the baths!’ announced the slave, proudly. ‘I took him, but I was so busy encouraging him that I forgot to take the clothes basket. He didn’t have to talk to anyone there – I strigilled him down in a corner as quick as we could. Then he did me, even though I said he needn’t bother.’

  I hid my surprise, not to mention relief, that Tiberius had finally been persuaded to leave the house. ‘Good boy! What made you think of that? He was clean. You were sponging him.’

  ‘I wanted a cake,’ admitted Dromo, darkly. This was his established reward for bathing, a concept he otherwise ignored.

  I asked where everyone else was. My mother had been here to reclaim Galene; though she had left a message that I could have her back if I was desperate, it was a subtle maternal hint that I should organise my own staff now. Hinting seems to be something they gain with pregnancy or, in my case, it had come along with the adoption diploma.

  Although this had left Graecina in sole charge, Graecina had left too. That was unexpected.

  ‘What a shock! However did you wangle that, Dromo?’

  Dromo, a guileless lad, let his delight show. The official explanation was that the children’s teacher had refused to come so far, while the tots were badly missing their friends. Graecina knew an elderly gentleman on the Esquiline, a very respectable Egyptian widower (or so he said, I thought cynically), who wanted a housekeeper. So she had done a flit while I was out, unable to face telling me.

  Since she had taken all her belongings, the departure could not have been arranged on a whim. I admit I never saw this coming. I admit I was not entirely downhearted.

  ‘She left her horrible vase mats for you, as a present. I’m glad those little children have gone, but have I got to do all the work now?’

  ‘No, Dromo. You will have to help out for a while, though no need to set place-mats everywhere. Your master doesn’t like them.’ Always blame your husband. ‘I shall find someone else. Don’t worry. Here’s some lunch. Go and fetch bowls and beakers, please. And perhaps that portable serving-table?’

  ‘I’m full of cake. I don’t need lunch.’

  ‘I do! So will your master. Fetch the things we need, please.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, Dromo!’

  He went. He must have been able to see that his master was coming.

  Tiberius leaned down and kissed me, smelling of bath oil. He had combed his hair flat while it was wet, though when I touched it, it was dry. He dropped onto the bench beside me. Ruffling his hair back to normal, so he looked less severe, I checked his mood: uplift. That was cheering.

  ‘Marius called when you were out,’ he said. ‘He is going to the Parthia house this evening with his flute. I told him to be careful.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  Tiberius had not only made it to the baths without panic but afterwards had felt able to go over to a warehouse he owned. ‘I have the workmen cleaning up; they will carry out repairs. Sparsus knows a fellow who will lend us a dog − a good ratter, to see off the vermin − then Larcius is devising an advertisement so I can lease the space.’

  ‘That’s good. But I didn’t want you to worry over anything like that.’

  ‘I need to pull my weight,’ answered Tiberius, broodingly. After a moment he said, with more enthusiasm, ‘Nepos has taken one of the shops to sell his cheese. I’ve done a quid pro quo on the rent, to reduce the last instalment we owe for this house.’ Metellus Nepos was the man who had sold us our new home. He had been anxious to shed the building firm because he was a dedicated cheese-maker. We liked cheese, so we had encouraged him. ‘I shall let the other shops now as well.’ The warehouse had small commercial outlets along its street boundaries. Everything had stood empty for years so it was high time Tiberius exploited his asset. ‘Your father’s man, Katutis, wrote out tenancy agreements for me. I have not been completely idle, Albia.’

  I reassured him that I had never thought so. I only wanted to look after him, spare him exertion before he was ready for it.

  ‘I am ready,’ he snapped tetchily.

  ‘That’s wonderful! And you have mastered telling your wife not to fuss.’

  Tiberius opened his mouth, about to answer back. He paused. He saw I was teasing. He grinned. ‘Nearly fell for that.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Thank you. Love you too.’

  I took his hand and we sat in silence together in the sunshine until Dromo reluctantly brought bowls and serving platters. He made no move to unpack my parcels of bread and stuffed vine leaves, or some smoked cheese that Tiberius had bought from Nepos, so I did it. I was saving my strength for more important arguments.

  Despite his cake, Dromo put away more than us. I made no comment. I was too pleased with him for persuading Tiberius out of doors. For the time being, I was prepared to feel the boy was not all bad.

  That would never last.

  We had just finished eating. Of his own accord, Dromo was carrying things back into the kitchen. He would polish off any leftovers then complain he felt sick. I was about to urge Tiberius to go upstairs for an afternoon siesta, while wondering what were the chances of romance if I joined him …

  Somebody knocked. Thwarted again.

  Dromo kept clattering pottery loudly, to show he was busy, so Tiberius, napkin in hand, went to the door. To our surprise, in came Philippus.

  On this occasion, the stylus-pusher wasted no time. Barely seeming to notice that the master in person had had to let in visitors again, he gave us unsettling news. Trebianus had been suspended from duty. Rather than accept house arrest anywhere close to Rome, he had agreed to have an open-ended vacation on the Bay of Naples. This was a traditional destination for freedmen who came under a cloud. The traditional outcome was either suicide, or soldiers with swords were sent to make suicide unnecessary.

  The Parthia-watcher was in deep trouble. Suspension was ominous enough; his enemies must be scheming to impose a much deadlier punishment.

  44

  I groaned briefly. ‘Well, that should please Dolazebol. Trebianus given the push? No one watching Parthia? Juno, the great eternal enemy could put in place all kinds of contrivance.’

  ‘I am watching Dolazebol,’ Philippus corrected me, sounding peevish. ‘I have a man in the house.’

  ‘Of course you do, the po-faced Corellius! And Trebianus had someone else there, though he never told me who.’

  ‘One of his half-drunk reprobates. Acting as a gardener, I believe,’ Philippus conceded sniffily. I thought of the over-trimmed jasmine. Hacking back produces more flowers next season, but that climber could end up very bald if there were a large number of peristyle conversations to monitor. Nerves clouded his handsome face as Philippus made a conscious effort to set aside inter-service jealousy. ‘I have taken over. I volunteered for the extra workload to prevent our traitor inserting a saboteur.’

  ‘Lot to learn?’ suggested Tiberius, with sympathy.

  ‘I am bedding in … For the time being, I cannot do much about Ctesiphon. I have to discover what Trebianus had in place there. His record-keeping is deplorable – he’s so secretive, anyone would think he was afraid of surveillance. Rubrius is to sit in his office temporarily; he can open any despatches, then we shall have to see.’

  ‘Messages may be in code,’ I warned, remembering what the Parthia-watcher had told me about how he communicated with his far-flung agents.

  ‘Rubrius is a fine decoder. If we find ourselves absolutely stuck, I’ll just have to send a courier down to Neapolis on the sly for Trebianus to translate. Apart from the time that will take, we don’t want Abascantus to know we are still communicating.’

  I asked what had happened with Trebianus. ‘You said he was suspended? Is he actually under arrest?’

  Philippus looked between Tiberius and me, as if satisfying himself he could trust us. Apparently so, for he shared the story. It was Abascantus, from his senior position, who had imposed Trebianus’ suspension; he implied it was a painful measure taken on orders from elsewhere. Philippus did not believe him. For one thing, in the civil service ‘measures’ are always ‘painful’. For another, why was it necessary?

  Even in the Emperor’s absence, Abascantus lacked further authority over colleagues, though he might yet try worse sanctions. If Trebianus survived long enough, Domitian would be the final judge.

  ‘Presumably Domitian knows nothing about this yet … What crime is Trebianus supposed to have committed?’ asked Tiberius, ever a stickler for form.

  ‘With gardening leave, we never name the reason. The guilty party always knows.’

  ‘What if he is innocent?’ I demanded. I paused. ‘As Trebianus presumably is. Or do you genuinely know something against him?’

  ‘Oh, I know what he has done!’ rapped back Philippus, in an acid tone. ‘He has gone against Abascantus. Abascantus, lord of all, wants to flatter the Parthians by loading favours on his creature, Dolazebol. Dolazebol has complained to Abascantus that Trebianus is pressing too hard upon him. So Abascantus ordered me – which we can assume was a test of my loyalty – to fix the immediate suspension of my colleague. Trebianus had to drop everything and go. He understood I was under duress – in fact, my acquiescence was our only way to keep someone with the right motives in his place. The whole burden falls on me now.’ He was human; he sounded worn, although I detected the warm burn of discreet excitement.

  ‘Was Trebianus expecting to be banished?’

  ‘He probably had his bags packed from the moment he began to pique Abascantus.’

  Tiberius asked thoughtfully, ‘What will happen when Domitian comes home?’

  Philippus tensed. ‘Crisis point. As soon as Domitian returns − that is, before Abascantus can get to him − I must be able to show the Emperor everything the traitor has been doing, with full proof. The logistics won’t be easy. I shall have to know when our Master is close, then slip away from the palace and ride out in secret to meet him. Otherwise Abascantus will get to him first and poison his mind. If that happens, Trebianus is finished – so, no doubt, am I. Without us, the collaborator – whoever he is …’ Philippus paused. ‘He will set in action whatever coup he is planning.’

  A moment of reflection passed over all of us. I then announced quietly that I could say what the traitor was planning. He would present Rome with a new Nero, validated by the Sibylline Books.

  Raising a hand to stop me, Tiberius stood up. He sent Dromo out on an errand, telling him for once that he could take his time. Usually the slave took no notice of our conversations, but it would be typical that this was an exception. What the boy did not know could never be tricked out of him by others.

  After checking that the workmen had not yet returned to their yard, Tiberius put a bar across the communicating door, then rejoined us.

  I had used this pause to assemble my thoughts. I was succinct. ‘This is what I know: the collaborator has used the Sibylline Books. After constructing a prototype, using the ancient prophecies, he must have invited the Parthians to join him in overthrowing Domitian. In the first instance they set up the man from Syria, the one murdered in the Castra. He was so bad they are producing a more realistic contender. I presume they have found one who looks like the real thing and possibly is a true musician.’

  A fourth False Nero? One who could play? Tiberius and Philippus were startled.

  ‘That poor inadequate prisoner got by initially. He was what Romans expected after what had occurred in the past – a blond harpist in Syria with a swelling train of followers. Abascantus supposedly negotiated his release to us, Philippus, though if he was colluding with Parthia it can’t have been as hard as he pretended.’

  Tiberius joined in: ‘Once he was in Roman hands, I imagine it was soon realised the third Nero was hopeless.’

  ‘Perhaps it even happened earlier,’ I suggested. ‘When he tried approaching provincial governors, they may have been so disparaging in their despatches to Rome, the plotters recoiled. Abascantus would have received those letters, of course.’

  Tiberius agreed. ‘Someone of Abascantus’ calibre would never risk a coup with a dud figurehead. Knowing this man was unacceptable, he must have scrambled to organise a better substitute. I imagine he now has him right here in Rome, under his control, being given a stiff course in public speaking, together with a portfolio of Nero’s old musical creations.’

  Philippus groaned. ‘I blame myself. I wanted the pretender brought here for questioning, but that fits their plans! Nero is back, rumour will say. For many it will have credibility.’

  ‘A pretender who turns up in Rome will be lethal,’ I agreed. ‘People are mad enough to accept him, just as they tolerated the real Nero for so long. Listen – the plotter has gone to extraordinary lengths to find out what the Sibylline Books say. He definitely wants his creature to fit the oracles.’

  ‘And how does that help?’ Tiberius asked cautiously.

  ‘Those books prophesy a messianic figure who will arise in the east and come west to destroy tyranny. Tyranny, everyone knows, can only refer to Domitian. Even Domitian knows it.’

  ‘But everyone sensible knows Nero is dead,’ Tiberius pointed out, still testing my theory.

  ‘And a lot want to be rid of Domitian – maybe at any price. This Nero will be fully groomed to fit. He won’t be what remote crazy Syrians think a Roman leader is, but what a cynical Roman, here on the spot, knows he must be. It doesn’t matter that the third pretender was cavorting in the east, where new Neros traditionally appear. The game has changed. A star performer will take over. This time, the resurrected heroic figure finally will reach the west.’

  Philippus looked more and more anxious. ‘They will announce that the third False Nero was brought to Rome?’

  ‘Sounds natural enough – after all, it’s what you really did!’ Tiberius reminded him.

  Philippus again looked sick at how he had been unintentionally drawn in. ‘Yet the Princeps can say he was murdered at the Castra.’

  ‘Really? Can you produce a corpse?’ I asked, reminding him of how the body’s secret disposal had been conducted on his orders.

  ‘So then here is Nero, breaking free from his chains, such a good image,’ Tiberius followed up. ‘We know he will be a puppet emperor. We know a clever Roman will control him.’

  ‘With the willing connivance of Parthia.’ Philippus spoke with as much high-minded Roman disgust as if he were the thwarted Octavian watching Cleopatra’s asp in the fig basket.

  ‘So it seems,’ I said. ‘Dolazebol and his sidekick Bruzenus have come here to see things through at this end. Meanwhile the King of Kings is sitting on his lion throne in Ctesiphon, just waiting to hear that their plot against Rome has been successful.’

  Tiberius stirred. ‘You will have to shift to stop them,’ he told the stylus-pusher. ‘But the plotters need Domitian to be here.’

  I agreed. ‘That’s right. They cannot try to overthrow him when he is running free, in command of twenty-nine legions.’

  Tiberius continued pressing: ‘If Domitian’s return to the city is the critical moment, that’s any day now.’

  Ever since I had read the scribe’s notes with the Princeps, I had been thinking. Now I put into words my curious conclusion: ‘Philippus, if the substitute Nero is being coached here in Rome, at least we have a chance of finding him.’

  Philippus leaned forwards, becoming more earnest. It was no surprise that he asked me if I would help. I had come so far, it was no surprise that I agreed.

  45

  We discussed how we could find the pretender. Plotters could have their new Nero hidden anywhere in Rome while he practised wearing a wreath. He might even be somewhere outside, within a short radius of the city, though we discounted that for practical purposes. They wanted to keep tight control of him. They wanted him easy to present to the people at the best moment. I thought his hiding-place would be central.

  A search for him must be carried out in utmost secrecy. We knew it would draw dangerous attention to us. However discreetly it was done, anything so wide-scale would be noticed. The traitor must be waiting to see what we did next. Any manpower we used could be compromised, despite any checks we carried out. Then as soon as we started looking, we had to assume the plotters would secure their man even more secretly. Once we began, we must move extremely fast. Once we began, there could be no going back.