At Lesser Laurel Street, two spies remained on duty, still standing in their doorway, motionless as caryatids. Their menace was lessened by the fact we now expected them.

  Tiberius went to the yard where he spoke to Larcius. The clerk-of-works told him the watchers had been no trouble. They had bought themselves fried squid for supper, drunk from a flask, tossed leftovers into the gutter, kept the flask because they could claim a discount next time if they took it back. They spoke to no one. If they peed in the doorway they did it discreetly and it was not our doorway. Larcius had taken the watchdog out for a walk, encouraging him to bark at them. Larcius himself pointedly called out, ‘Evening!’ just to let them know they had been spotted.

  While we were out, the Fabulous Stertinius had called on the off-chance, hoping for supper. Larcius said he had been in a mood; Stertinius had gone to give someone a lesson that evening, only to find his student had climbed out of his bedroom window and bunked off to a bar.

  ‘We offered a share of our pies, but he said no thanks if they came from Xero’s. He has a concert tomorrow and can’t risk being laid low with the runs. I told him the trick is to avoid the rabbit version, because Xero uses rats in those, but he mooched off. Shame, really. The dog was all keyed up; a lullaby might have calmed him.’

  The watchdog was quiet now. Larcius said that was because he had been fed. He liked a pie. Even Xero’s, though they gave him flatulence.

  Not long afterwards, my cousin Marcia came. Her evening had begun with a drink with Marius. Like Stertinius, he had been let down: the Parthians must all have gone on somewhere after the races so he had had nobody to play his flute for.

  That had not stopped him meeting Marcia. They were later joined by Corellius, though he could not stay long because he wanted to be home to check on the Parthians’ return.

  ‘So did you leave Marius all on his own?’ Solitary drinking could be bad for a philosopher. Marius might upset himself, commentating mentally on society’s ills.

  Marcia shook her head. ‘He was all right. He had some mate with him. I could tell they were intending to make a night of it.’ Because of the Games there would be a good atmosphere out on the streets, for lads who liked to party.

  I teased Marcia about losing her chance with Corellius. ‘Oh no, it’s all on. He has asked me back to his place later.’

  ‘Not the Parthia house, Marcia! It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Well, I can’t take him to mine,’ she snapped. The fact that her mother was becoming confused these days ought to allow greater privacy. But Marina would wander in at the most inconvenient moments. Then, worse, she would suppose they were still back when she, the one-time fabulous beauty, had kept herself in funds by attracting men. Reluctant to be preyed on by a now-dud elderly good-time girl, Marcia’s fellows fled. ‘I am not having it happen with Corellius.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The night was still young when my cousin went off to her tryst. Tiberius insisted she be put in a hired carrying chair, which we paid for. I saw the doorway spies taking an interest, though they did not tail her.

  If they had, they would have been tired out. Marcia must have made it to the house, urging the bearers to go fast. She gained admittance at the discreet back entrance, giving a special knock for Corellius. Their night of passion never happened. He sent her straight back to us with a message: ‘Crisis! Bruzenus has been kidnapped. Nobody can imagine how. The whole house is in uproar, but he is definitely missing. A baker’s boy was paid by a stranger to bring in a message to Dolazebol. If he wants his man back, he has to make an exchange for Squilla.’

  ‘Juno! There’s no mistake?’

  ‘The messenger brought that ghastly torque as proof. It must have been difficult to wrench off his neck – it’s bent and there was blood on it.’

  ‘Nice touch! That would emphasise his danger.’

  ‘Corellius is furious,’ Marcia told me. ‘He called it pointless and amateur. He said to tell you this is not official. It’s the crazy agent, pushing for a fast recovery of his girlfriend. The swap is tomorrow, at sunrise, in the Porticus of the Danaids.’

  I said that was good. There would be fifty statues of murderous brides, fifty more of their luckless bridegrooms, plus Apollo and the stone oxen carved by Myron, all for people to hide behind.

  The satire was too fine for Marcia, who frowned. ‘Each of the people being exchanged must have only one person bring them. Those are the conditions. Otherwise the whole deal is off.’

  Tiberius was looking apprehensive, but I laughed.

  51

  It should have happened on a bridge. That is the classic location for parleys between enemies when they reach the final compromise. For an exchange of hostages, it is ideal. Everyone can see what is happening. They have an excellent view of the planned handover spot, even in longueurs when nothing is happening. No gangs of men can burst out of hiding. If you choose the right river, even a clandestine boat will be swept away.

  Ritellius seemed to have forgotten this part of spies’ training.

  It was a calm, bright morning at the end of the hour after cockcrow. The rectangular top of the Palatine Hill lay silent, bathed in thin sunlight. In the city below, daily activities had started. Children were being roused and dressed; the sick who had finally dozed off were shaken awake again by cruel nurses; obsessive athletes entered gymnasia; every third pigeon opened one eye. After the festival night preceding, both inanimate and human detritus was being shovelled off the streets. Business began again. Nobody noticed that the imperial area was in the grip of an exercise.

  Nothing new there, anyway. The Praetorian Guards were always annoying us with special checks and shakedowns.

  Up here, the south-western corner was dominated by Domitian’s palace, with its enormous marble halls and private garden stadium; the whole lay strangely still. Iron entrance gates, which, ironically, had been installed after Nero’s reign, were locked. Guards stood there as well. Gates at the foot of the hill, gates in monumental arches, gates giving access to the ramp and the Cryptoporticus were also closed to the public. Nobody had thought to close off the pinch-point at the top of the Steps of Cacus, so I climbed from the Circus Maximus corner and gained access.

  The narrow steps, named after a fire-breathing, cattle-herding cannibal monster, brought me up between the Temple of the Victory and the House of Augustus. This was ideal for the precincts of Apollo on their massive platform above. Less ideal was that I ran into a cluster of men conferring: Philippus, with his assistants Rubrius and Fuscus, and the Princeps Peregrinorum. Titus had left his eight phalerae at home, no doubt hoping for a roughhouse, which might damage his treasured medals. When the others scurried off to hide in the cella of Apollo’s Temple, Titus crooked his finger. ‘Come with me, little Albia, if you want a good time!’

  I went with him because I thought he had the most sense. With the exchange due in the Porticus, people up in the temple might be out of sight but they would never hear anything, and would be unable to take useful action without running down a long steep flight of steps. Rubrius and Fuscus might take those six at a time but if Philippus, who was not athletic, tumbled on the slippery marble, he risked a broken pelvis.

  Titus and I ensconced ourselves in shade behind a corner Danaid. Naturally he patted her shapely posterior. Our dryad had been supplied with a jug and a big pot, from which water leaked, to symbolise the punishment the guilty sisters had imposed on them in Tartarus, endlessly attempting to fill up a holed pithos after killing their fifty husbands. Well, forty-nine husbands. Hypermnestra spared hers as his reward for respecting her virginity. I would have had mixed feelings about that, except that they went on to found a dynasty.

  ‘Admiring my spear?’ asked Titus.

  I had no such intention but I feared we were in for a long wait there. Delay in a hostage exchange is traditional. Indeed, not turning up at all has precedents. To fill time, I dutifully expressed an interest in my companion’s beautifully maintained military equipment.

  We chatted. It became lengthy. Unsurprisingly, Titus was a weapons hobbyist; a friend of his, now dead, had made special adaptations to the very spear he was carrying now. Titus explained various technical points, how a lead weight could be added to the head to improve penetration, though that slowed the flight, or how your spear could be fletched with leather strips or feathers to help rotation, which kept flight straight and hits accurate. ‘You can bind your hand-hold for extra grip, but must position only two fingers actually on the binding because you want the shaft to slip through your hand as you throw.’

  ‘Neat!’ All I knew was that Roman spears had iron heads that were intended to bend when they stuck in an opponent’s shield. ‘They can’t pull it out, so throw their shield away and are at your mercy. Next stop, theta-ed.’ ‘Theta’ was military slang, the Greek initial for thanatos or death. Thanatos, son of Night and Darkness, twin brother of Sleep. Theta was the mark put on a dead soldier’s record.

  ‘Good girl!’ Titus was full of mock-approval for this basic knowledge.

  ‘I was married to a soldier once. An accident waiting to happen; if there was a broken board, he stepped right on it. I was glad we lived here. In the north, keeping him off ice on ponds would have been hell. But a dear boy.’

  ‘Well, bear up, they can’t all be crack men. Have to expect a few duds.’

  ‘Don’t call him a dud, Titus. I loved him.’

  ‘Still, you’ve got a nice new one now.’

  ‘Smoke-blackened and hair on end.’

  ‘All right if you can get it. I bet he’s hot stuff!’

  ‘True.’

  He had been. I hoped he would be again.

  He was waiting for me back at home. He had declared that if I failed to return in time, today he was off to the Circus on his own. I knew people would warn me this was not a good start to a marriage.

  In truth, though he tried not to show it, Tiberius was desperately worried about me attending this hostage exchange.

  Titus and I talked about spears again. It was better than having to talk about chariot races. Thinking of Rutilius Gallicus, I said having an interest in weapons was at least better in an old soldier than writing awful epic poetry. The Princeps, ever open to dangerous new ideas, looked interested. Now he was thinking of composing some twelve-book nightmare, and it would be my fault.

  One thing we reminisced about was how, in the terrible defeat at Carrhae, the Parthians won because they shot barrages of arrows further than the Romans could hurl their javelins. The enemy stayed out of reach while the legions were massacred. Afterwards Rome developed spears that could travel longer distances, out-firing the Parthians. ‘So even the army’s classic weapons are redeveloped occasionally?’ I wanted Titus to say what was so special about his friend’s adaptations.

  ‘Nothing was. He thought he made some mystery improvement, but bugger me if I can tell any difference. He liked to tinker. No harm in that – though it got him into big trouble. I’ve just brought this one today because we always spent a lot of time talking about the need for better fire-power than Parthia. So, in my old pal’s memory, I hope to loose off a Lucullan today.’

  Lucullan! I jumped.

  ‘Princeps, you knew Sallustius Lucullus, lately governor of Britain?’ He gave me a laconic nod. ‘You presumably know what Domitian did to him. Any comments?’

  ‘None,’ said the Princeps, in his well-turned voice of finality. ‘We had a shared interest in weapons. We tinkered with spears in a workshop. Mates. We never talked about politics.’

  ‘Who mentioned politics?’

  ‘You were going to.’

  A slave in palace livery entered the Porticus. He strolled towards the temple.

  Our three colleagues slithered out between the over-ornate Corinthian Composite columns. The boy shouted. They came down the steps openly. Rubrius called across to us: ‘The exchange is cancelled.’

  52

  Philippus said Ritellius had sent a message to their office in the palace. It had taken time to arrive because of the locked gates. There was no explanation for his change of plan. But hitches, often deliberate, were customary in intelligence.

  None of the others was sure what to do next. Ritellius, a crazy man, was controlling events. Nobody knew how to contact him.

  To me, delay was good. While the Princeps had been gossiping about spears, half my mind was forming a suspicion. Sometimes information you barely noticed consciously comes back to you of its own accord. I suddenly had a new idea about the groomed False Nero.

  I volunteered to slip down the Cryptoporticus, the straight covered way to the Forum, which ended nearby. I said I would call at the Parthia house, to ask Corellius what he knew of this delay; Ritellius must have sent new instructions to Dolazebol. They fell for it. The rest of them were going back to the palace.

  By the time we all left the Porticus of the Danaids the gates had been opened; people were everywhere. Nevertheless, a lone woman could slip through if she made herself look innocuous. The few Praetorians in the Cryptoporticus were inspecting visitors coming in, not me going out.

  I wondered if someone was following me. Well, let them.

  My rapping at the Parthians’ back door summoned Corellius. ‘No action at the Porticus. What’s occurring here?’

  Corellius told me yesterday’s uproar over the Bruzenus kidnap had simmered down. Dolazebol had stayed in today. ‘He’s putting on a show of concern, though the two of them are always squabbling. Bruzenus has ambitions. Dolazebol never wanted to bring him to Rome, but strings were pulled, so he had to be included. It’s typical of Parthia. Dolazebol believes Bruzenus is plotting behind his back, but now he has to make a show of rescuing him from Ritellius.’

  I made Corellius let me in. We dived into his room; if Marcia had been last night, she had left no evidence. However, the agent confessed she was there – and Dolazebol had learned of it. He had had her taken to the women’s room; Corellius could not stop it, and was despairing of how to rescue her.

  ‘If Dolazebol has taken against Squilla, in his mind there will be a vacancy …’

  ‘Never mind that.’ I was brisk. ‘Marcia won’t be moved by him. I want to follow up what you said about Bruzenus. To me, it sounds as if it could be him who is plotting with the palace traitor. Dolazebol either doesn’t know, or could be playing a shrewd game. If Bruzenus’ plot fails, Dolazebol plays the innocent; if it succeeds, he welcomes the result and joins in. Either way, if Dolazebol has been excluded from the plotting so far and is angry about it, he may not actually want to retrieve Bruzenus from Ritellius.’

  ‘Oh, he has to,’ Corellius assured me. ‘Even though they loathe one another, he must save face. He cannot let a Roman capture a fellow Parthian.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Something else intrigues me …’ I fired off questions: ‘Do you keep a list of visitors and was one of them yesterday the Fabulous Stertinius?’

  The agent looked startled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often does he come?’

  ‘Every two days.’

  ‘Not for concerts?’

  ‘He gives music lessons.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Bruzenus’ nephew. I keep away. The repertoire they are practising is horrible.’

  ‘I bet! Nephew, name of?’

  Corellius, apprehensive, saw I had a reason behind my questions. ‘My complement list for the Parthians is sketchy. Half are just called “family members” – their names are so hard to pronounce, we never quibbled. “Nephew”.’

  ‘Describe.’

  Corellius shrugged feebly. ‘I never see him really.’

  ‘Is he kept apart?’

  ‘Choice, I think. He seems unhappy to be here. He stays in his room like a moody lad. He’s older, though. Thirties?’

  Oh, rats. ‘This is not moody puberty. He is hidden, hidden in plain sight − right under your nose, Corellius! Show me your money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get a purse – hurry!’

  I knew from searching his room that he kept a purse under his mattress. As soon as he dived under and produced it, I grabbed the bag, tore open the top strings, slewed out coins across the bed. I picked out what I wanted: a silver sestertius, Nero on the reverse, bare-headed and togate, seated on a curule chair to distribute coins to a citizen. I flipped it. Obverse: Nero, youngish, straight nose, forward chin, curly hair on a bull neck, chubby cheeks, smiling. ‘That “nephew” bear any resemblance?’

  Corellius grasped the point.

  I told him to take me to the women. It might have worked: the bored Parthian ladies might have introduced me to Bruzenus’ nephew. In the room with them was Marcia. I sent her a swift glare, as she knelt on the floor pretending to play with the grey and white kittens. By her standards, she was looking anxious.

  Then a figure arose from a low divan and I was greeted by a maliciously smooth voice: ‘Ah, Flavia Albia, come in. We have been expecting you!’

  Dolazebol.

  I had space to jump back to the doorway, away from him. Corellius was there. I assumed he would let me go past him, making my escape.

  Wrong. Instead, he opened his arms, grasping the door frames to block me. He gave me a shrug of apology. I groaned.

  My lovely cousin had fallen for a double agent.

  53

  With no escape, I might as well try to learn something. I had a bad feeling I would never manage to pass it on, but instead of allowing Dolazebol to run this scene, I took charge. I strode forwards, announcing to the Parthian ladies that I was looking for Bruzenus’ nephew. He was wanted by the Roman authorities for impersonating Nero. To have any chance of saving him from justice, they must surrender him to me.

  This caused a flare-up. Dolazebol clearly tried to dismiss my claim as nonsense. He looked almost beseeching as he attempted to calm his womenfolk, which went badly wrong on him. ‘Ladies, ladies, don’t blame me. It was Bruzenus, always Bruzenus and his special friend. He talks to Rome in secret. The scheme was never going to work; it was crazy.’