Even his questionable diplomatic charm was failing. Women conferred together in shock. They arose from their cushioned couches, like gorgeously coloured butterflies. One in particular, Asxen, Bruzenus’ wife, rounded on Dolazebol, loudly attacking him in Greek so we could follow her outburst.

  The young man was her nephew. She loved him. Others had used him. He was innocent. None of the women had been told before why he was brought to Rome; now they knew, so they saw how he had hated what was being done to him, and they were furious.

  Stirring the mix, I said, ‘This is so dangerous. You must be terrified. False Neros are killed cruelly. If the Romans catch him, your poor young man will die like all the others.’

  Dolazebol let out a shout, calling for his men. Marcia and I might be about to disappear for ever – yet surely he was too clever to risk the consequences. Besides, he could still blame Bruzenus for everything, and with the women in uproar against the plot, I felt braver.

  Asxen continued in her deliberate Greek: ‘So that is why he was kept out of sight! He is a lovely musician but they made him practise terrible old tunes. Well, he went out for a good time and has not come home. He climbed through a window and escaped, Dolazebol – in spite of you and Bruzenus.’

  That confirmed what Stertinius had said yesterday about his pupil bunking off. It was oddly reminiscent of Nero, who famously prowled the streets at night with violent cronies, beating people up for their own amusement. If the young Parthian’s doting aunt was right, his idea of adventure was harmless, but if he had failed to come home, where was he now? Hopefully, he had not fallen foul of the vigiles.

  Asxen turned to me. She was weeping. ‘Please help him. His name is Haxamanis.’

  ‘I will help, but I need to leave here.’

  The distraught aunt grasped both my hands, unthinkingly impeding movement. Marcia jumped to her feet and came to me. Kittens tumbled in all directions over the floor, while the white cat Vindobona suddenly clambered up a carpet that was hung on a wall. He clung to the knotted wool with sharp claws, running right up to the ceiling.

  Furious that no male attendants had appeared, Dolazebol yelled out again. He began to move towards the door, striding in his curl-toed Persian boots. If the guards arrived, we were done for. But it never came to that.

  Vindobona launched himself downwards. He landed on the envoy’s neck, digging in needle claws; he was a big creature, with some weight. Dolazebol shrieked.

  As the cat attached himself, the Parthian forgot us while he tried to grasp him. I shook off Asxen. I dragged an arm around Marcia to pull her with me.

  Corellius still blocked the exit.

  ‘Bastard!’ My cousin Marcia, the boxing queen, bounced on her toes, making fists. She caught her two-timing lover completely by surprise. It was classic – four moves: jab; cross; hook; uppercut. Her jab was relaxed, the rest were power punches. The girl really meant it. Corellius went down without a murmur.

  Holding hands, we stepped over him.

  We ran to the front doors, where a man dressed as a gardener saw us coming, so he quickly opened them; we ran out headlong. I had the impression Trebianus’ spy would close the doors after us, then impassively go back to watering a large plant in an urn.

  Just as those doors were meeting together, the white cat shot through the closing gap. Vindobona must have dashed between the gardener’s legs. On his heels raced two beautiful, extremely fast, silky-haired sighthounds. Ecstatic in the chase, they sped down the Forum, full of grace and eagerness, as if coursing in some desert of their remote homeland.

  Vindobona disappeared, fleeing for his life up the Via Sacra, a long-haired, desperate streak of white.

  54

  I sent Marcia home. Her street, that of Honour and Virtue, was only a step away. I knew she had really liked Corellius. Wounds of the heart needed attention.

  I had other plans. Steadying my breath, I walked straight to the ivory workshop around the corner from the Arch of Titus. Outside in an open space, they were working on a batch of furniture, attaching finely carved panels to various cupboards and couches, using giant pots of fish glue. This pungent gel was even being spread on the doors of a carrying chair where it would dry in the sun to give a crackled finish. I knew they brushed on glue, left the surface to go tacky, then powder-painted the item, which would set in crinkles. My father had told me. It is a trick for creating new ‘antiques’.

  The workers must have been taking advantage of the still-early morning period. Anyone who was out and about had things of their own to do; fewer members of the public would start complaining at the fish-scale smell. Covering my nose, I asked for Ilia. Nobody took much notice so I went to where I had found her last time. When she saw me marching in, she put aside her work protectively.

  ‘Stop messing about, Ilia!’ I had no time for finesse. ‘I am on to you, woman. You have been leading the spies a fine dance, but the game’s up. You deal with me now − and I know exactly what you have been playing at.’

  The woman looked truculent, but under my verbal assault I could see her weakening.

  Fired up by our narrow escape from Dolazebol, I blazed away: ‘It’s your choice, Ilia. Either you tell me the truth or soldiers will come and take you in chains to prison. Listen: I know Ritellius has not been at your father’s house. I dare say your honest old father would cudgel him for how he has behaved to you and your poor dead daughter. But you, you still support that bastard. Agents watched your home for him, while all the time your cheating husband was holed up elsewhere – and you knew it.’

  Her face set in an unpleasant mask. I needed something stronger or she would confess nothing. Ritellius had completely trapped her in his lifetime of schemes.

  ‘You lied about everything, Ilia. I know when the freedmen informed you Ritellius had done a bunk that it wasn’t even soup you threw at the messenger, was it? You worked here all along. The palace man saw you here. It was a glue pot you heaved at him.’

  This guess of mine, pure bluff, began to work. My certainty about that incident made Ilia think I knew much more.

  I kept up the pressure. ‘Ritellius is engaged in a dangerous caper. You know his bolthole. I’m sure you trot along to him, bringing food, even money. He has taken a hostage who must be there right now; perhaps you have seen the man. It’s not for your benefit. He intends to swap his hostage for Squilla. Squilla, his eternal darling. Squilla, the subtle goddess with the lush blonde hair, who will supplant you, Ilia. If Ritellius survives, then whatever nonsense he has promised you, he and Squilla will be together. Not you. He uses you, but he wants her.’

  She knew I was right. She had known all along.

  ‘The Lupercal.’ Ilia finally turned on her husband. ‘The dirty double-dealer is hiding in the cave of the Lupercal.’

  55

  I was beginning to know the circuit around the base of the Palatine Hill much too well. It can be a long, hot pavement hike.

  As I set off, I gained company. Fuscus, the silent man who worked for Philippus, must have followed me down the Cryptoporticus. It was little consolation that if Dolazebol had harmed Marcia and me, this man would have been outside the house. Eventually, he would have reported to someone that I was most likely killed. I doubted he would have broken in and saved us.

  He had a runner with him, whom he sent up the hill to tell Philippus where we were going. I never actually heard him say, ‘Send reinforcements,’ but with Fuscus little was voiced aloud.

  The Cave of the Lupercal, a centuries-old venerated spot, is supposed to be where the shepherd Faustulus discovered chubby little Romulus and Remus being nursed by a she-wolf. As an adopted child myself, I took a passing interest in this myth, though I considered old Faustulus had caused much trouble in the world.

  The craggy hole lies deep in the Palatine bedrocks, beneath the House of Livia. Augustus, in his lordly way, had assumed ownership, built villas for himself on top, and reconfigured the natural cavern with expensive artistic decorations. No wolf would venture into it now.

  Outside, observing from a discreet distance, we found Rubrius and the Princeps. Rubrius was lying on the ground, to minimise the target he presented. Titus, with a sardonic expression, stood at attention alongside, braving any missile that might be shot from the cave. When we arrived, he decided to check inside. He told us to wait. He laid a hand on his sword pommel; he had decreed that on an exercise like this in Rome, a Princeps Peregrinorum was entitled to bear arms. However, he did not bother to draw the sword.

  He went in. There was a pause. He reappeared and told us nobody was there.

  We followed him in. Titus, inevitably well-prepared, had a flint about his person, which he struck on the scrumptious Augustan tiles. Shielding the flame with a big careful hand, he lit a small lamp that stood there, waiting for his gentle attentions.

  We were in the modern version of a wolf’s cave. It had been turned into a fancy cavern, finely decorated everywhere with glistering coloured mosaics and marble pieces, plus patterns created with numerous shells to suggest this was still a natural feature. A fancy white eagle surveyed us from the central roundel of the ceiling. For a hillside cave, the Lupercal was surprisingly dry, though pongy.

  We found evidence of human habitation. Someone had been there, possibly as recently as last night. Maybe more than one. It was impossible to be sure because the place was used by courting couples. They left behind food rubbish, then pooed and peed in dark corners. Romans know how to treat a venerated shrine, at least when the guards go off duty. Ritellius must have been confident he could scare them away.

  Rubrius and Fuscus decided to return to the palace for further orders. Titus and I chose to wait.

  ‘Where are your men, Titus?’ My voice sounded echoey in the cave.

  ‘What men?’

  ‘Princeps, I do not believe you came out today without full military support.’

  He smiled. Though he gave me no answer I knew he would have troops when he needed them.

  Eventually we heard scuffling sounds. I nudged Titus, suggesting he should blow out the lamp, but he kept it alight so we saw who entered.

  It was a big, shaven-headed man of Germanic build, wide-shouldered. He had faded blue eyes and the white-skinned, freckle-peppered colouring of a one-time red-head. He wore a patched brown tunic and heavy-duty combat boots, meticulously strapped. I glimpsed weapons fastened to him under a cloak that he had trussed close to his body. He also had a hat. This would have concealed his face, but he took it off as he entered the cave.

  When he saw us, he bellowed, ‘This place is requisitioned, so get lost. If you’re here for a shag, go and fuck somewhere else.’

  His voice was cultured and arrogant. His language was easy and crude, a man who had been expensively educated in rhetoric but who affected to despise it. I did not take to him.

  ‘Gaius Ritellius!’ the Princeps replied, in a smouldering tone of welcome. He must have owned the spies’ handbook, because he used the same script as Dolazebol. ‘Come in, man. We have been expecting you!’

  He had pulled out his sword. It slid from its underarm scabbard with a telling whoosh. The blade was in good fettle. With his spare arm, he pushed me flat against the grotto wall, a safety measure. ‘Do not make me use this.’

  Only a fool would have done so, but we were dealing with one of life’s ludicrous risk-takers. From his look, Ritellius intended to jump the Princeps. It never happened. Instead, Fuscus silently reappeared right behind Ritellius. He fixed him in an arm lock, applying a bright dagger to his throat. It was the grip, not the blade, that was making him gasp.

  Rubrius joined us too, tough-talking: ‘Where is Bruzenus?’

  Half choked, Ritellius spluttered, ‘Let go, Fuscus. Stop enjoying it!’ Old comrades, I thought. Same training course.

  Rubrius nodded to Fuscus, who loosened his grip marginally.

  The big maverick then admitted he had stalked Bruzenus yesterday night, when the Parthians were out on the town after the Games. They had gone in a noisy group to visit their own exotic animals, their camels and elephant, out at the Imperial Menagerie. Ritellius tailed them until a message was brought to Bruzenus; without saying anything to his companions, the henchman split off from the others, taking only a few guards. Ritellius went after him. Bruzenus then seemed to be searching city entertainment places.

  ‘Trying to find his nephew,’ I explained. Rubrius quirked up an eyebrow. ‘Potential Nero. Being trained in statecraft and harping, but he’s run away from home.’

  If we wondered how such a mountain of flesh as Bruzenus could be overcome and carried off, Ritellius had borrowed – stolen − a delivery cart. It was night as the Parthians were coming home from the menagerie. Once Bruzenus left the main party, in the dark he became more vulnerable. Emerging from the festival crowds, Ritellius had jumped the hard man, the way Fuscus had just grabbed him, with a knife at the man’s neck. Threatening to slit the Parthian’s throat if he called to his guards, Ritellius had dragged Bruzenus away down a dark side-street, trussed him, gagged him, put him on the cart and drove off like Pluto emerging from Hades.

  ‘You had better hope Dolazebol really wants to get him back,’ I scoffed, from against my wall. Dry or not, it was clammy to the touch and the mosaic tesserae scratched my bare arms. ‘Do you know about the plot with Bruzenus’ nephew?’

  There were four men here with me; clearly none of them had worked it out. I rounded on Ritellius. ‘You have no idea how many layers of intrigue your stupid stunt has interfered with! His name is Haxamanis. He was at the Parthia house, being trained for public duties. Squilla presumably knows. For that alone, she will be lucky if Dolazebol ever lets her go. But the only possible reason for Rome to take an interest is if your louche girlfriend also knows who Bruxenus has been plotting with here. Who is his “special friend” in Rome? If she is genuinely on our side, we need her to say so. What exactly have you told Dolazebol about swapping her?’

  Ritellius grumpily told us his plan. He had the captive Parthian, still tied up and hidden in that other pastiche of ancient times, the Hut of Romulus. He had found a notice saying ‘Men at Work’, which of course meant the men had vanished for a month. The structure was closed for renovation; it so often required new reeds and wattle, nobody would think anything of it. Bruzenus could be well-hidden there.

  The supposed meeting at the Porticus of the Danaids had been a feint. To unsettle the Parthians (he claimed), Ritellius had sent Dolazebol a new message at cockcrow, telling him a changed plan.

  Instead, he would transport Bruzenus from the hut on the cart, which he had originally found there laden with tools. ‘He’s in the cart ready now. All I have to do is jump aboard and drive it.’

  In the new plan, they would travel along the hilltop to the palace’s banquet hall. Dolazebol was to bring Squilla. There was a monumental fountain, a complex nymphaeum; they would arrive on either side of it, then each send a hostage around to the opposite side of this water feature.

  After the exchange, Ritellius would whisk his girlfriend away on other transport. To cover their escape, he asked Rubrius that the authorities should arrest the Parthians.

  Rubrius and the Princeps quickly conferred. They decided they might as well let this caper go ahead. Most of us thought it was lousy, but it was so vague, no one offered to pick real holes in it. We had run out of time. Ritellius told us everything was due to happen in the next hour.

  Rubrius let Ritellius go to fetch Bruxenus. Rubrius himself rushed off with Fuscus to organise official forces.

  One fault with the changed plan, as Titus told me while he and I hurried from the Lupercal and up the Steps of Cacus, was that when such arrangements are altered for strategic reasons, you are supposed to bring the critical event forward; the point of changing is to interfere with any counter-measure your opponent has.

  Ritellius had put his plan back. It gave more scope for the adventure to go wrong, which Titus prophesied would happen.

  ‘So why has he changed it?’

  ‘Because he’s an idiot.’

  ‘He thinks he is clever.’

  ‘That,’ opined the Princeps, ‘makes him an idiot of the worst kind.’

  I saw another flaw. Ritellius wanted to free Squilla, so he could run away with her. But if she knew the name of the palace traitor, other people would try to stop that. She was in most danger from the Parthians. Yet Philippus wanted to grab her; Abascantus, or whoever it was, wanted to prevent him.

  In the doom-laden words of Simon the scribe, I now foresaw implacable wrath and ruination.

  56

  Titus went off, claiming he had to answer a call of nature. ‘Just popping to the three-seater at the nymphaeum.’ I walked around for a while until things started happening, when I scuttled to the pre-arranged meeting point.

  The Parthians arrived first. They brought their large colourful palanquin, forging through the crowds. The palanquin seemed to have come up from the Vicus Tuscus near Anacrites’ house, using one of the old roads, then in front of the palace it had to slow and negotiate bystanders; soldiers were attempting to ease out the public, but once the iron gates reopened, people came swanning everywhere. It was impossible to shift them by citing national security; they just stood watching curiously.

  Not everyone was a gormless tourist. In one of a series of forecourts, a large formal space backing onto the audience chamber, I had seen Perella, with her satchels hung on her. An extremely old musician was playing a hammered zither. She had her arms raised as she began to dance sensuously for a fascinated audience; they looked suspiciously like plain-clothes troops. Even though it was a ploy, she danced with such dignified intensity, they were hypnotised.

  The Parthians would have passed Perella before turning around into the less busy area that Ritellius had chosen for the exchange. By the time the palanquin made its stately entrance, I was there alone, positioned by one of the columns outside the magnificent double-height dining area. I watched the conveyance being carried slowly into the fountain court. This noble piece by the architect Rabirius occupied a large open space in front of the ceremonial hall, one of the features those dining inside could view. Surrounded by columns, its oval bowl had a central island covered with brilliant marbles, where splashing and sliding water added movement and sound. Exquisite statues were dappled with shifting flakes of light, cast up by the fountains. All around there were marble features in grey, yellow, purple, white and green. Highly polished, and with rare patterned borders, they made an incongruous setting for what was about to be played out.