I know this. Something similar had once happened in my own family. We never speak of it.

  ‘What is the fee?’

  Without hesitation, Philippus named a sum. It was larger than I had expected. He seemed very sure of himself.

  ‘Claudius Philippus, do you have clearance for that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I am impressed. I want it in advance,’ I specified.

  ‘Oh, come, Flavia Albia! Have faith. Your father has done imperial work and been paid for it.’

  ‘Two years later! I need income now, Philippus. That is the whole point. I have plenty to do as an aedile’s wife, especially with the Roman Games fast approaching. Manlius Faustus needs me. If you want me to stop looking after him and do this as a favour to you, you will have to pay upfront.’

  He sighed. ‘Well. I have a special fund I can call upon.’

  Special cash funds are always intriguing. They are usually secret, and meant for spending on very special actions. I wanted to discover more.

  ‘I deduce this task will be more difficult than you are so blithely making out … Would I have assistance?’

  ‘My staff are always helpful.’

  ‘And do you think the governors were plotting?’

  ‘It is more than probable.’

  ‘Not a fantasy of the Emperor’s?’

  ‘The Emperor is extremely shrewd.’ When you feel convinced people are out to get you, you have to stay sharp. Domitian had the knack of clinging to life.

  ‘I still think the ladies will simply deny it.’

  ‘I fear so.’ Philippus took this calmly. He put his fingertips together, a precise, prissy gesture. ‘But we have to ask the question. So, Flavia Albia, can I assume you are willing to do this?’

  I accepted the job.

  The man from the palace then added smoothly: ‘There is something else you can do for me, if you will. While you are questioning the women about Saturninus, please see whether their husbands were in any way connected with the Syrian fiasco. I need to know if the men had any contact with, or interest in, the third False Nero.’

  ‘Trust a secretariat to want two jobs for the price of one!’

  ‘You agree?’

  ‘I agree that I can ask them.’

  That was how I came to obtain special knowledge of imperial fakes. Philippus just casually tossed it in.

  Of course I am not supposed to discuss that sorry business or even hint that I know about it. My father always says, the whole Roman Empire will have to decline and fall before his sensational memoirs can be put before an astonished public. Mine will contain lively material too. For instance, the third False Nero, whom Philippus so slyly added to my commission, was not as shadowy as people think. I can say that with some confidence: I met him.

  4

  I should have paid more attention to the Nero request. When a bureaucrat pretends something has little importance, you can bet it is significant.

  By then my thoughts were back with my stricken husband. I was wondering why, when Tiberius Manlius opened his eyes, he had seemed so troubled as he looked at me. It was as if he could not even remember who I was.

  As soon as Philippus left, I went upstairs, carrying the official tablet that set out my access to the interviewees.

  Dromo was there. ‘I am looking after him!’

  Clearly I was supposed to remove myself. ‘I am here now.’ The slave glared. ‘I want to talk to your master in private.’ I held the door open for him, pointing the way out in case he failed to get the message. I won, though I felt I could not always rely on it happening.

  Tiberius had watched without comment. I gazed at him. He was washed and dressed, though Dromo had not shaved him. His skin felt too sensitive; he could not bear the razor. To see such a sturdy figure reduced to lying feebly on his bed all day was dreadful.

  His grey eyes assessed me. He must see my anxiety, so at last he held out a hand, encouraging me to sit by him. His grip felt warm enough.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, I waved my commission tablet. ‘Philippus wants me to conduct some interviews. I told him you refuse to let your wife work.’ A smile hovered faintly. His sense of humour was lurking in there still. ‘The fee will pay the fresco painter, but it carries a moral burden. I have never acted for the government; I never wanted to.’

  ‘Your father has.’ Affected by his sedative, Tiberius’ words came out a little slurred.

  ‘Yes, but never since Vespasian died. Father had respect for him. I am being hired to validate the dark suspicions of our Master and God, which is very different … I have to prove, or disprove, that he was right to execute two men.’

  ‘Just because Domitian believes other people are plotting doesn’t mean he has imagined it.’ Tiberius was alert enough and as usual very fair.

  ‘Oh, yes. Once a plot succeeds, his suspicions will all be justified … If he really is a god, then after he croaks he can look down on us all with that knowing smirk of his.’ Tiberius shook his head slightly, warning me not to be outspoken. ‘Well, aedile, my task seems straightforward: interviews of respectable widows. They will know who I am and why I have been sent. It is all out in the open.’

  Tiberius gave me a half-shrug.

  I wanted him to rant and refuse permission. I wanted a tussle. Would he care more if he was not in pain? I hated to see him too weak to criticise this new task, and perhaps, even at this stage, I wanted him to give me an excuse to turn the palace down.

  I gazed at him. My husband. My husband, whom the Roman gods had snatched away into some darkness where I was no longer certain I could reach him.

  ‘Oh, Tiberius! How are you, sweetheart?’ His response was another lacklustre movement. We were honest with one another. I explained how his expression earlier had alarmed me. ‘You looked like a man with memory loss. I felt frightened that you were wondering who I was.’

  At that, the look I had noticed seemed to clear. He reached out, pulled me down beside him on the bed and held me in his arms. Against the top of my head he murmured, with something like his normal chortle, ‘Unforgettable!’

  ‘Flavia Albia?’

  ‘Flavia Albia. Daughter of Didius Falco and Helena Justina.’ The formal reply seemed reassuring – until he went on, ‘Wife of Manlius Faustus … But that’s the problem,’ admitted Tiberius, quietly. ‘Who is Faustus?’

  He might have been teasing. Yet his insecurity was heart-rending.

  5

  I decided to see the British governor’s widow first. I wanted to get Britain out of the way. I had told Philippus to fix it up for that same afternoon.

  I was to interview both women at the palace. Neutral ground. The best place available, since I was told they had sold their town mansions and gone to live quietly in the country on family estates. Once Domitian had despatched their husbands, they must have found it hard to remain in Roman society, where most of their friends would feel nervous about knowing them. Perhaps they managed to see those people in the country. More likely, friendship was another of the losses inflicted on them.

  Philippus must have compelled these noble women to journey to Rome especially to be questioned. I guessed he was reminding them of the Emperor’s power over them.

  Hey-ho. Perhaps I would start with an apology … Somehow I felt that was unlikely to win these ladies over.

  Before I tackled the interviews, I prepared myself.

  There were certain things I could deduce. The widows must be of an older generation than me. Their men had completed the full senatorial course of honour. That ran through aedile, quaestor, praetor, consul and overseas legate until, if one was cynical, it nowadays ended with offending Domitian and premature death. For consul, the qualifying age is forty; when their provinces were granted they would be shy of fifty, with their wives perhaps ten years younger. Aristocrats tend to marry when they are entering the Senate at twenty-five, often taking wives who are still teenagers. This is supposed to ensure no taint of scandal attaches to their brides; well, young girls are famous for concealing whatever they get up to. I had teenaged sisters. My parents were living with fear every day.

  The senators might have done their wild living too, but that never counts against men. Settle down, Albia!

  So the two ex-consuls had been mature, at the height of their powers, perhaps even wise and competent. They would have travelled out to run some foreign place, before enjoying a comfortable retirement with any money they had creamed off its locals – provided they dodged imperial disfavour.

  Asia is generally seen as the highest prize available. The man there would already have served three years in a lesser province, which would have made him older though still not decrepit. For Domitian to grant him Asia was a very specific honour. How did Civica Cerialis subsequently lose the Emperor’s trust so badly?

  Britain, of course, is inferior. No favour there!

  As I expected, nothing much was known about Sallustius Lucullus, who had been sent to Romanise the woady British natives. I knew he had been appointed in the wake of Julius Agricola, with whom Domitian had a touchy relationship; the Emperor distrusted Agricola’s supposed ambition and military success. Agricola nevertheless stayed in post for a long period, conquering away; when finally recalled to Rome, it was said that he entered the city unobtrusively by night instead of proudly and publicly. After debriefing, he was granted triumphal honours, including a forum statue, but he immediately retired.

  People believed Agricola had been offered the important governorship of Africa, but declined it. Perhaps he loathed Domitian – or knew Domitian loathed him. There was talk of ill health. My family, who took an interest, simply thought Julius Agricola had had enough. Civilising Britain had exhausted him. Well, it might have, they said, grinning at me.

  Sallustius Lucullus, who replaced him, was ordered to avoid more military conquest. Not for him annexing Caledonian mountains. So, was he bored, twiddling his thumbs, until he began inventing new army equipment? Or was that javelin story a pretext?

  Usefully, I was able to fill out my deductions. One of my uncles, a senator, came visiting to ask after Tiberius. His breezy voice calling hello announced him, in the usual absence of Dromo: Camillus Justinus, Mother’s younger brother, her favourite. He strode in without ceremony, despite the purple-bordered toga, which he always wore rather raffishly.

  ‘Uncle Quintus!’

  He gave me a hug, knocking the breath out of me. ‘That was some wedding, young Albia! Thundering Jupiter! How is the poor fellow?’

  I sent him up to see the patient. He was gone a while. Tiberius must have been talking.

  When he came down again my uncle asked sternly about my task for Philippus. So that was it! Men deciding what was suitable and safe for me.

  I exploited his presence to ask about the two dead governors. Justinus said Sallustius Lucullus was never prominent. ‘My impression of him in the Senate is of a plodder.’

  ‘He had to be thought efficient, though Domitian cannot have viewed him as dangerously ambitious. Might he have supported the Saturninus revolt?’

  ‘Not enough gumption.’

  ‘Was he obsessed with military toys?’

  ‘What toys?’

  I explained about inventing the new kind of javelin. My companion winced. He had served in a legion but he was no armed-forces fanatic. He liked to read, eat, and father children. He was a benign parent. His rabble of six had marauded like little barbarians at my wedding.

  ‘So, Uncle, did you know the other man, Civica Cerialis?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Never met him, honest.’

  ‘I get it! None of you in the Senate have any idea what he did wrong?’

  Justinus pulled a face. ‘The general thought is that he did nothing. I mean nothing,’ he hinted heavily.

  ‘Didn’t support the Saturninus revolt, for instance?’

  ‘Doubt it. Too far away. He was off in the east. Anyway, I think Domitian eliminated old Cerialis before the revolt happened. More likely his crime was inertia during the Nero fiasco.’

  ‘Ah! Enlighten me, Uncle.’

  ‘Well, this is a guess. When the latest fake turned up in Asia, Domitian probably felt Cerialis ought to have barred him more robustly.’

  ‘The False Nero travelled to Asia?’

  ‘He certainly didn’t stay in his Syrian village. He gathered followers and set out for Rome. When that went wrong, the idiot went to Parthia. But the whole adventure seems murky.’

  ‘That’s intentional,’ I told him. ‘Diminish his importance by publicly ignoring him … Quintus, I suppose such a situation always poses a problem for a governor. He must wonder, What if this unlikely upstart wins? After all, Vespasian and Titus gained the throne from the east, which seemed a crazy feat at the time.’

  My uncle nodded. I knew the story only as a kind of folk tale, whereas he was old enough to remember. ‘Vespasian won because the governors of various eastern provinces, in a region where he was conveniently fighting at the time, declared for him. The way he played it, it was their idea to put him up for emperor. It did demonstrate that frontier governors, who all control very active legions, could influence who holds the throne – with the possibility that they might do so again.’

  ‘So a False Nero appearing on his doorstep could have given Cerialis ideas?’ I asked.

  Gazing at me with fine dark eyes, my uncle spoke as if giving a legal verdict: ‘Young woman, provincial governors are supposed to have sufficient judgement to dismiss any yellow-haired shepherd lad who comes along singing and claiming to be a dead man’s ghost.’

  ‘Well, tell me something else. Cerialis was dead in Asia before Saturninus made his play in Germany. In my commission they seem oddly linked. What about Saturninus? Did you know him, Quintus?’

  Once again I heard the all-innocent line: ‘That misguided rebel was utterly friendless. Ask anyone!’ Uncle Quintus had a particularly telling grin.

  Always attractive, he had grown even more into his looks as he had matured in his middle years. His humour was drier too. He knew how the world worked, tolerated its inequalities because he had to, but among his family he deplored nonsense.

  Neither he nor his elder brother would be offered consulships or provinces, although they were fully capable. Years ago, a relative had plotted against an emperor. The doors to political success closed in their faces. Instead, they became lawyers, not flamboyant ones who were famous for litigation, but the honest kind who tried to advise clients on how to avoid the courts. Politically they kept a low profile. They had managed to enter the Senate, like their father, but could advance no further.

  Neither ever referred to their career disappointments; nor did they seem to bear grudges. Yet supporting Saturninus might have appealed: a grateful newcomer might have given Camillus Aelianus and Camillus Justinus opportunities they had long been denied by the Flavians. Both astute, they had judged the revolt in Germany a predetermined failure. Anyway, one plotter in the family was enough. One disgrace. Any false move now and Domitian might remember what had happened in the past. That would be typical of him. It could be fatal for them.

  When Quintus was younger, before his career faltered, he had been a military tribune in Upper Germany, based at Moguntiacum. As I expected, he had views on what had happened there last year. ‘Moguntiacum is a huge fort, housing two legions – both notoriously stroppy. The Fourteenth Gemina has a terrible reputation. The Twenty-first Rapax are no better.’

  ‘You served in one of those?’

  ‘No, the First Adiutrix. They moved over to the Danube. It was partly to empty a space where the Twenty-first Rapax could be dumped. The Fourteenth had already been drafted there for one ruckus too many. When Saturninus took up his post, the two legions had been cosying up together for too long. Then, too, there was serious money stashed at the fort, a double whack of soldiers’ savings. Saturninus relied on these uppity buggers, and intended to use their cash to fund himself.’ Quintus stretched his legs as if he felt uncomfortable. ‘They backed him – so, Albia, I call the affair in January a mutiny, not a rebellion. The thing was never sound. It was one man who should have been cleverer, plus soldiers behaving like idiots. By no means a wide-scale political movement.’

  ‘Why was Domitian so exercised about two legions?’ I asked.

  ‘Saturninus had four, in fact, a huge army. His other two declined to join in, though that could not be foretold in advance. Besides, his truly evil plan was to invite the Chatti to cross the frozen Rhine from Free Germany. The tribe was ready to do it but a sudden thaw made the river impassable.’ I could see that, for Camillus Justinus, encouraging barbarians to attack Rome was a serious sin.

  ‘My impression is the rebels, or mutineers, just caved in?’

  Justinus shook his head. ‘No, it came to battle. Saturninus’ forces were defeated and he was killed. He completely underestimated Domitian’s reaction. The Emperor himself was on his way to Upper Germany, with Ulpius Trajanus fast-marching a legion in from Spain, but even before they got there Lappius Maximus had rushed up troops from Lower Germany. He crushed the rebellion. Lappius had the First Minervia. Domitian founded that legion. Your everyday soldier somehow likes Domitian and, no question, those lads would not let their founder be deposed.’

  I was curious about what happened next. ‘It was all kept under wraps, as I remember. Finished before the public in Rome realised anything was happening?’

  Quintus’ face darkened. ‘Yes, it came as a shock. But Domitian must have been warned that a coup was likely to happen on New Year’s Day. He was secretly ready for it.’

  ‘He had loyal generals.’

  ‘He had spies.’

  ‘Hmm! And afterwards, Quintus? I know officers from the two mutinous legions were brutally hunted down in Germany.’