Uncle Tullius had been to the races that morning but was now home for lunch, which in his case meant unspeakable sexual practices followed by two hours dead asleep. He let us have his conveyance. It was huge, carried by six hefty Numidians; those bare-chested heroes were all oiled like polished ebony, but the palanquin was plain, much less flamboyant than that flaunted by the Parthians. As a businessman, Tullius Icilius liked to strike a balance between showing the world he had money and moving unostentatiously from one meet to another as he ran his warehouse empire. He spent a lot of time sipping mint tea at tavern tables, while ruthlessly doing the dirty on other men of commerce. He was good. He had made a small fortune.

  Some of the fortune belonged by rights to my husband. Uncle Tullius followed the Roman tradition that family funds belonged in the tight fists of the older generation. We would see. Tiberius was making cautious moves on his personal inheritance. As his wife, by tradition I should push him. So far, I was biding my time.

  We clambered aboard the uncle’s deluxe transport. I sized up the two observers, unsmiling loiterers in dark tunics; I did not comment to Tiberius, but to me they were so obvious they could only have been put there as a threat. We were intended to notice them. Well, where we were going we were safe: our seats would be too public and they would be unable to come close.

  However you attempt it, descending from the Aventine cliffs to the flat valley that contains the Circus Maximus is never easy. Even in a rich man’s giant litter, you slide gently forwards frequently as the bearers go down the steep slope. At least bracing and repositioning took our minds off the coming ordeal. There were even giggles. Out on a spree, we were remembering we were newly-weds.

  During the long drag down outside the stadium, I tried to keep his mind occupied but I watched Tiberius regretting his decision. Around the Circus on festival days a throng mills, of spectators, food-sellers, prostitutes, gamblers and hustlers of all kinds. The little shops and specially imported stalls that huddle there were doing a good trade. There were scents of smoke, sweat, food and dung. Noises of music, chatter, fights, creaks, crashes. All this hubbub was beginning to bother my man.

  Our bearers eventually reached the huge new triple arch that the Senate had created in honour of the Emperor Titus; to gain entrance they had to tell the gate-keepers whom they were delivering. Too late, we discovered that announcing the aedile who had been struck by lightning was a spectacular event. Worse than we feared, it happened during a break between races. Accompanied by loud trumpets, our litter – with its big curtains opened – was sent through the main arch, then around the track inside. The special area for magistrates was halfway along on the Palatine side; we were lucky the event-managers wanted to keep to the programme so did not inflict a complete walking circuit on us.

  Nerve-racking uproar assailed us as we moved along between the seats and the spina with its water-feature, markers, temples, refuges for track-workers and emergency assistance. We had to travel down towards the high grey granite obelisk that Augustus had transported from Heliopolis. There was an official box; this was contained within a monumental temple, raised high, about opposite where the Temple of Sol sits beside the track. With the best view of the finishing line, this shrine was called the pulvinar, after the long cushioned couch that represents a seat of honour for gods. Augustus built it as a seat of honour for himself. Now it was waiting for us.

  All the while cheers increased as word passed along of who we were. Clapping and stamping started. When Tiberius emerged, the whole arena erupted.

  He went white. I slid out to my feet, and took his arm firmly. We climbed up to the viewing platform. On this utterly formal occasion, I had expected to be the more nervous of us. Again, this was marriage; I had to help Tiberius. Thank goodness I had come with him, because I was certainly needed.

  We reached the top. When a Roman arrives at a venue there is always a useful moment to stabilise: he has to readjust his toga. I assisted like a good wife. Fortunately, when my father had to go togate, it required all his female relatives to stand him still while we made the folds hang right as he cursed us, so I knew how. This task invariably made me reflect on what a mad nation I now belonged to.

  ‘Listen to the people. Congratulations, aedile!’

  Tiberius quavered a grin. A wreath appeared for him. A garland for me. We progressed to cool seating under the celebrities’ awning, while consuls and other notables stood up to clap us politely. Tiberius diffidently acknowledged the clamour with a raised hand, thanking everyone for their good wishes. We sat. There were cushions. Even footstools. Slaves produced cold drinks. More slaves brought us nut saucers and fruit. Everything began to settle down.

  He had made it. To my own surprise, tears were trickling.

  We were here. Once he had finished having his hand gripped by his fellow aediles, once their wives, previously strangers to me, had stopped hugging and kissing me in sympathy, Tiberius turned to me while the others were paying attention to the chariots. He was overwhelmed. I smiled. Despite his anxiety, he winked one grey eye back at me.

  At last. Now we had achieved the aim of our formal wedding five days ago. Here we were, as one in public – and about as public as it ever could be: Tiberius Manlius Faustus and his wife, Flavia Albia.

  48

  A really grand imperial box had been created at the top of the new palace. It gave Domitian the best possible view of the Circus, while allowing him to remain virtually invisible to the massed public. When he was in Rome, he might invite officials to join him up there. When he was away, the imperial box remained empty. The pulvinar was prepared for VIPs; they had front-row seats. Wives were allowed to peer over their togaed shoulders from behind them. Exceptionally, I was positioned beside Tiberius. A bride’s privilege.

  The consuls were together at the other end of the line. Titus Aurelius Fulvus (his father had been consul twice, so Domitian must really be having trouble finding excuses to pick on that family) and Marcus Asinius Atratinus, best known for being unknown. I only remembered their names because the year was officially named after them. Every time you wrote the date, you had to work out how to spell them. These noble ones did not come and speak to us, though they nodded benignly in our direction.

  Another man of power must be the praetor, Rome’s chief attorney. His wife had acquired extra twinkly jewels in honour of his year in office. I assessed them like an auctioneer’s daughter (unlikely to make a profit).

  Also present was the man I knew to be Quintus Julius Cordinus Gaius Rutilius Gallicus, Prefect of the City. A north Italian somewhere over sixty, my family had first met the stomping old buffer when he was a legate for Vespasian in Tripolitania. Later he and my father, who never ducked disaster, held a joint poetry recital in the auditorium of Maecenas; it was still talked about, though not for cultural reasons. After a decent career that had begun under the great general Corbulo – so Rutilius would have an interest in Parthia, I remembered – he had passed through a consulship, governing Galatia and Pamphylia, then Asia twice – again, curiously topical – until Domitian had given him his current post, overall charge of Rome itself. As he acted as deputy to a man who called himself a god, the strain was beginning to show.

  I suddenly wondered if the chance to meet Rutilius and seek his aid was what had made the dutiful Tiberius brace himself to come today. I would have found an excuse to go along the row and introduce myself – Falco’s daughter, wife to the aedile: my accreditations were growing longer. Rutilius had recognised me, or heard about my marriage more likely, so he came to say hello. Perhaps my pa should not disparage him so much.

  A race began, so Rutilius actually squatted on the row behind, leaning through to talk to us. For the Prefect of the City, extra cushions were hastily brought. More titbit dishes were handed. Wine was offered.

  So, once the slaves had receded, and under cover of the race, I half turned around and spoke to him. With a hundred and fifty thousand people present, I asked for permission to raise an issue in confidence, then warned the trusty Prefect of the dangers aimed at Rome. In the turmoil of a horse race nobody could overhear us. If a hundred and fifty thousand lip-readers were in that audience, we were done for. Luckily the laps on the track were far more important than the distant conversation of two people in the special seats.

  Head tipped forward to hear me, Rutilius listened. I was the young wife of a junior magistrate, so he had no need to do that, but he was the type who never turned away work. It would give him a mental breakdown soon, but in this period he was still managing to stay active. Domitian’s absence had relieved the strain, temporarily.

  I kept things short, little more than signposting, though I named our chief suspect, mentioned Parthia, the Nero substitute, listed our plans to go forward. When I finished, I thought Rutilius sighed to himself, like a man who already had enough burdens. He showed no surprise. He said absolutely nothing, merely handed me a bowl of walnut savouries with the gallant gesture of an older man being courteous. But in taking the bowl, I felt him squeeze my hand. He was not the type to grope a woman; that squeeze was a ‘leave it to me’ message.

  As the City Prefect went back to his own seat, a newcomer entered the pulvinar: Flavius Abascantus, positively glittering. Rutilius Gallicus shook his hand in greeting, then kissed the cheek of the mature, handsome wife who stood respectfully behind, plastered with large Indian pearls. Neither man was effusive. They must work together all the time, so had both mastered the bureaucratic art of acting like friendly colleagues with people they despised. (And, yes, I do suspect distaste went both ways.) No warning was passed to the freedman. No warmth passed from him to the prefect.

  Rutilius Gallicus took his own position. He offered another nut bowl to his wife, Minicia Paetina. She had managed to avoid even a nod for Abascantus and Priscilla. Watching closely, I noticed that Rutilius leaned towards a slave, spoke quietly, then not long afterwards, without people noticing, the Prefect of the City slipped away.

  Since I was not required to talk much, I spent time looking at the crowd. Eventually I spotted the seats reserved for foreign dignitaries and other favoured guests of Rome. Among the riot of colour all around the Circus, Parthian envoys stood out in slightly different hues and hats, with much less white than characterised holidaying Romans; they were all under parasols, which would not please those sitting behind. Squinting against the sun, I took a careful register. There were Dolazebol and Bruzenus, plus the veil-wearing ladies Marcia and I had met, and they must have brought all their retainers.

  No Squilla.

  I motioned to Tiberius, showing him where the Parthians were seated. ‘Did you send them tickets?’

  ‘Someone else must have done.’

  ‘Abascantus,’ I growled under my breath, then murmured, ‘The lovely Squilla must be home alone.’

  I had a wonderful husband. He gave me a long look – though not the most reproving in his repertoire. Without my even asking, he whispered to another aedile that the Circus Maximus commotion was a little too much for him today, so he was making his excuses. He intended to go to the theatre tonight instead, where a play called The Spook Who Spoke was being performed. He had to go to that. His father-in-law had written it.

  We left by a back route this time, the way the Prefect of the City must have gone before us. Rutilius was probably collected in a comfortable litter; ours had gone home to Uncle Tullius. But since most people were staying at the races until the programme ended, a line of empty carrying chairs with bored bearers stood waiting.

  It took us a while because Tiberius Manlius believed it was the role of a husband always to ask what a journey would cost before he let his wife climb aboard (however much her sandal-straps were hurting as she stood in full sun going nowhere). I looked around nervously, in case I saw the two men who had lurked outside our house. Tiberius had to argue. As an aedile, whose job was to monitor such things, he claimed there were official fixed fares with penalties for not sticking to them; the bearers assured him it had been agreed by long tradition that on Games days all prices were doubled.

  This was true. It was agreed by annoyed customers who grumpily paid up because otherwise they had to walk home.

  While he was still hotly negotiating, we heard our names called. Claudius Philippus came scurrying up. He said he had seen us in the pulvinar, then noticed us leaving. So we all walked off to find somewhere to confer urgently, followed by the bearers’ curses.

  49

  We walked briskly along the side of the Circus in the shadow of the Palatine. Despite promising Tiberius I would not do it again, I had been intending to go around the hill to the Parthia house. I explained to Philippus how I thought Squilla must be there on her own, and that I would try to see her. Perhaps Corellius would let me in. If everyone else was out at the Games, maybe I could even spring her. In fact, why didn’t Corellius just do it?

  Philippus explained and dashed my hopes. The situation at the house had changed. Earlier, Corellius had sent word that Dolazebol had turned on Squilla and made her his prisoner. Today she had been taken away under guard. It had not been possible to follow because Corellius had been despatched on an errand while it happened. By the time one of his trusties told him, she was gone.

  I sighed. ‘I suppose it has always been obvious to the Parthians that Corellius was watching them.’ Presumably they followed my father’s rule: when you know who the observers are, leave them alone. ‘What about the gardener, Trebianus’ man?’

  ‘Unfortunately he was gardening. If he had suddenly downed tools, it would have blown his cover.’

  That was the trouble with planting a spy who had a specific job. If he stopped, it drew attention. There must always be a risk, too, that he would like his work, becoming so absorbed in it that he missed crucial events. The jasmine on the trellis, tended so assiduously, had a lot to answer for.

  There was no point in causing a disturbance at the Parthia house if Squilla had been transferred elsewhere. We all agreed we hoped she was still alive, wherever they were keeping her. Then we walked along to where the Steps of Cacus come steeply down from the Palatine, at which point Tiberius and I would go home and Philippus would leave us. He was going back to see if anything had come out of the searches for the new Nero. He complained that it seemed unlikely because the Palatine was such a rabbit warren. There were old and new corridors, endless collections of storage rooms, abandoned imperial quarters, areas that had been infilled with rubble so more buildings could be developed on top, and other parts damaged by subsidence.

  I wondered if Squilla and the new False Nero were being kept out of sight in a single location. It seemed unwise. I wouldn’t do it myself.

  I wondered who was looking after Squilla’s cat.

  50

  We spent a quiet afternoon. This is a luxury during an investigation. To enjoy it properly, you just have to stop believing your task is hopeless. But relaxing can make you miserable. We stood little chance of finding the groomed Nero and I had few hopes of retrieving Squilla. This meant proving the existence of a palace traitor was also unlikely. We had all put ourselves in danger to no purpose, I thought bitterly.

  That evening, we went out again, to the theatre. Tiberius had told his colleague how one of the plays had been written by his new father-in-law, Falco. With typical reticence he omitted to say he wanted to check up on the festival dramas. Aediles organised these Roman Games; Tiberius had selected the plays and their performers, then fitted them to venues. He couldn’t just leave it at that; being him, he had to make sure everything worked out well.

  The Spook Who Spoke was hilarious. Its first and previously only performance had been in the desert at Palmyra. That had literally caused a riot. My mother always became misty-eyed with laughter when she remembered, though my father, the sensitive author, tended to be huffy. We all knew he saw the ingénu hero as patterned on his younger self. This time, he had tried to grab himself the part of the ghost, but the producer had persuaded him to stand down ‘so a novice can be given a try-out’.

  The play was to be performed in a small temporary theatre in the Forum Boarium, the cattle market. Tiberius had told my father he thought it would be ‘more intimate’. He really meant he did not expect a large audience to put their backsides on the wavering wooden seats. I suspected he purposely set Spooky at the same time as a rude mime at the Theatre of Pompey, which would be popular because it was rumoured there were nudes, and a choral event in the Theatre of Marcellus that featured a particularly fine tenor. Nobody cared about his singing; people would crowd in to hear him because he was having a scandalous affair with a senator’s young daughter. Everyone hoped the senator would turn up incandescent. Tenors know how to advertise.

  The original actors were performing The Spook Who Spoke, undeterred by notoriety. Their company was owned by Thalia, my young brother’s birth mother. This gave us an added reason to go, for my family is hot on loyalty − when it’s loyalty that you hope will give you much to talk about next Saturnalia. Besides, we wanted Postumus to experience the heritage he had luckily escaped when Falco and Helena so generously adopted him.

  Before the prologue, Tiberius had to accept the applause of this crowd. Better prepared now, he managed bravely, even though the audience was bigger than he had expected. People are attracted by the hope of disaster.

  In fact, everything turned out quite well. That was disappointing. We took Dromo. He loved it.

  Afterwards everyone else trundled off to my parents’ house for celebrations, which were to include one of Father’s grills and much wine provided by Uncle Lucius. Tiberius and I went quietly home. He looked exhausted, though was in good spirits.