The red-swathed palanquin drew to a halt on one side. Bearers lowered the weight. The men stood motionless. None of the rich curtains moved. Swinging tassels gradually stilled.

  Almost at once, Ritellius arrived in his cart. The low Hut of Romulus, from which he had come, huddled behind Augustus’ monuments. Clearing the Temple of Apollo, which was right in front of the banqueting hall, the cart lurched forwards awkwardly, grumbling under the weight of obviously heavy contents. It was probably Ritellius who had turned an open vehicle into a covered wagon, using hoops and dustcloths. That hid whoever was inside.

  He pulled up and parked on the far side of the fountain, away from the palanquin. He jumped down; for some reason, he unhitched the mule. Almost hidden by a huge horse blanket, the mule pricked up long ears, looking around with eager intelligence. Ritellius stood by it, arms folded, also waiting.

  Stand-off.

  Nobody moved. I noticed, with a chill, how the crowd who had milled about before had suddenly drained from the hilltop. The precincts lay deserted.

  A light breeze whiffled sporadically. The sun, grown in strength with the day’s passing, warmed stone pavements, curved walls and the high roofs, tiled in marble that made Domitian’s palace resemble a temple. Bruzenus must be melting. A grossly overweight man lying inside a closed wagon, roped up so it was impossible to change position, he would be sweltering in much distress. Yet I was close enough to hear he never groaned.

  Silence.

  In that silence, I became aware that the ground trembled. Imperceptible reverberations grew in strength until it was clear that something tremendous was coming this way from the Cryptoporticus nearby. Then from behind the Temple of Apollo appeared a full-sized adult Parthian war elephant.

  A mahout guided her progress, though his control seemed precarious. In the back section of a stylish howdah were three people: Dolazebol, Squilla and a male servant. Midway between palanquin and cart, the elephant halted beside the imperial fountain, which it eyed with wily interest.

  Unhurried, Ritellius unfolded his arms. He showed no surprise that the red palanquin was a diversion. He called up to the envoy calmly, ‘Send Squilla to me. Set her down! I shall then release Bruzenus.’ He sounded fully in command. He might be clapped-out and paunchy but today he was sober. The sight of his lover seemed to fire him with even more confidence.

  Dolazebol’s servant slipped past the mahout in his lower seat, planed over the elephant’s head in a spread-eagled face-down position, slid the length of its trunk, landed securely. Without a word, Dolazebol gestured to the mahout. The man spoke to the elephant, which raised its trunk, curled it around Squilla, lifted her and brought her down to ground level.

  She thanked the beast with a caress of its trunk. I could see she was wearing only a straight white tunic, no jewels. She was barefoot, looking less than clean, though her long hair swung like pale gold leaf, as sensuous as ever. She seemed unfazed by the situation.

  The servant, who had a small curved dagger in his waist sash, seized her arm, controlling her.

  Ritellius strode to his wagon. He ripped cords away, letting the coverings fall.

  I heard him curse.

  In the cart, instead of the trussed-up corpulent Bruzenus, were only workmen’s tools, reed bundles and building materials. Ritellius must have thrown all that stuff aside when he had first taken the cart; someone had since put everything back. It was this jumble that had given the cart weight as Ritellius drove there. Now he helplessly shook a rope end, which told its story: Bruzenus had escaped.

  Oddly, it was Dolazebol who exploded. He let out a cry of betrayal, just as his elephant moved forward, raised herself, placed two enormous feet on the edge of the imperial fountain, filled her trunk with water and delightedly began bathing.

  At Dolazebol’s anger, curtains were flung open on the Parthian palanquin. Out spilled retainers, all armed with bows and arrows. They ran straight towards Dolazebol. He must have expected Bruzenus to arrange something like this. He yelled for the mahout to move the elephant, but one of the archers shot the mahout. The great beast, full of fun and mischief, refilled her trunk and began to spray water at the running archers.

  Ritellius recovered enough to throw himself on the servant who was holding Squilla. I ran out and dragged her away from the action. Ignoring what was happening all around us, I shook her. ‘Who is the traitor? Who, Squilla?’

  Blank expression. Big, innocent kitten eyes. She would not say. The slut-heeled goddess was keeping her saleable goods safe.

  Someone burst past, knocking Squilla from me. Perella! She pushed the golden beauty on her back, over the hard edge of the fountain. Amid those twinkling mosaics, strong dancer’s arms held Squilla, strong hands dipped her head back into the water, so white-gold hair swirled in the bowl, then clung to her as she was yanked out into the air again.

  ‘Name him!’ Perella ordered. Without waiting for Squilla to refuse, she dunked the younger woman backwards once again. Now I helped. This time we kept her under water longer.

  We dragged Squilla half upright, again ordering her to name the traitor. This time, she murmured something. ‘Bruzenus.’

  ‘Try again!’ snapped Perella, coldly.

  ‘Abascantus.’

  Letting her sit up, Perella and I leaned for a moment on the fountain edge, full of relief. Then Ritellius, much larger and more solid, barged between us, gathering up his girlfriend. For once that mysterious look of half-amusement vanished. With a truly sweet smile, Squilla fell on his neck.

  Perella pulled a knife from her satchel. She lunged at Ritellius. He smashed her away. I turned to help her up, as she cursed. He was wounded, blood pouring from his neck, but age or bad planning had diminished her old skill so Perella failed to finish him.

  Heedless of his hurt, Ritellius had swept up Squilla; they ran to where his mule was standing. He wrenched off its horse blanket. It was saddled for riding. He flung himself on. Squilla scrambled behind him, clinging with her arms around his waist. He turned the mule’s head and galloped towards the front of the palace, intending to make a dramatic escape down Domitian’s covered ramp.

  It was a good mule. It was the best mule I had ever seen, probably Sabine. Sparks flew under its hoofs as it raced off. For this escape, he must have blown all the cash he could lay hands on. Ritellius was making his exit on the fastest mule in the west.

  57

  He reckoned without Bruzenus. Left alone, he must have broken his ropes. He had replaced the tools in the cart, covering it carefully. We worked out later that he had then struggled down the Steps of Cacus. Somewhere at the bottom by the Circus Maximus, he had encountered a two-horse racing chariot. Knocking the surprised driver from his perch, Bruzenus had jumped on, sped around the Palatine and brought the vehicle to the top of the hill via the Cryptoporticus. It was a straight run, driveable and out of view. All he needed was to crash past a few startled Praetorians. Those boys probably admired his nerve.

  Now, torqueless and with bloodstains on his ripped silken tunic, he burst upon our scene. It seemed incredible that such a large man could perch securely in the fragile basket, but his feet were dainty. Racing horses are powerful so these could pull his weight, and he turned out to be an expert driver. As Ritellius and his sweetheart started what they thought was their ride to freedom, Bruzenus in the chariot rushed after them.

  After him ran Perella and I, zigzagging between the Parthian archers. Behind us, we heard loud trumpeting: Dolazebol had managed to reach the mahout’s position and was trying to bring his war elephant under control. His headdress had fallen off, so he tossed back long braids of hair from his eyes, as the elephant began moving. Her tough skin had repelled the Parthians’ arrows, which she shook off angrily, but she was still at the fountain, with Dolazebol in the driving seat, shouting at her.

  The Parthian archers came under attack. Mounted men had appeared – those who had been watching Perella’s dance, directed by Titus, who was riding with them. I suspect he had hidden their horses in one of the inner courtyards. The mounts were small, sturdy and fast. Their versatile riders were army-trained for scouting. A chance to round up Parthians in Rome was their big treat.

  Perella and I left all that behind as we followed the mule and chariot. In the ramp chase, the mule was fastest. It easily took the hairpin turns in the tall dark corridors. Behind, Bruzenus’ chariot was delayed when one of its wheels bounced off the flat onto the upper-level steps. At that point we nearly caught him up as we entered the top of the ramp. Somehow he managed to force the skewed vehicle back onto the roadway ahead, we saw, then he went careering on downhill. The chariot’s suspension must have suffered from hideous bumping, but the axle held as he teased it on around the double-backs. Though not so nippy as a Sabine mule in such confined spaces, the racers were trained for circling at the spina ends in a circus. Perella and I could see the chariot ahead of us sometimes, as the horses slowed for corners. Descending the steep slopes behind them, we two were forced to lean back, feeling the hard pull on our legs. We hurried, but we could not run.

  No members of the public were on the ramp sections, though a couple of Praetorians jumped for safety into refuges.

  The ramp becomes slightly narrower as it goes down. That was a problem. The horses went slower. Bruzenus punished them with a long whip. Wheels skidded and screeched. Wheel bosses crashed against the tall walls. Near the bottom is the lavatory niche. The ramp floor has a step there, before a turn. The step looks original; it may be a deliberate obstruction.

  A large Praetorian Guard emerged from using the hygiene bucket. The horses shied. The chariot bounced on the step. It crashed, stuck fast. Bruzenus fell out.

  Perella and I rounded the corner above. We then jumped aside into a viewing balcony that overlooked the House of the Vestals, to avoid suddenly being crushed as Dolazebol’s huge elephant came powering through. Stepping at a run, she passed us, swaying from side to side, crashing her howdah on the walls while Dolazebol clung on in the driver’s seat. She was spooked by the narrow, half-dark corridors full of shrieking people.

  The fear-mad beast reached the chariot wreckage. Bruzenus was trapped underneath, helpless because of his bulk. The elephant laid into the chariot, tugging pieces with her trunk as if clearing a pathway through some dense jungle. The Praetorian had a knife out, cutting free the frantic horses. They, too, were distressing the elephant.

  With terrifying noises, she trampled Bruzenus, this way and that. She was using her tusks too. Dolazebol was white-faced and screaming but unable to stop her. Afterwards, she forced a way over the wreckage and went trumpeting on to the Forum.

  This was one of the darker spaces, not lit sufficiently by the high windows for us to see blood and burst intestines. I climbed over everything. Perella stayed, with her knife out, helping Bruzenus into Hades. It was no act of kindness.

  I kept running. Once through the monumental arch and on the flat, it was easier. But I slowed. Nowhere could I see the mule with Ritellius and Squilla. The elephant had stopped on the Via Nova, upending stalls like matchwood. People yelled and fled. A couple of the mounted scouts must have come down by another route; they cautiously rode around the elephant, though keeping at a distance.

  There used to be a very ancient lavatory, a place so sordid that women in my family had been barred from using it. Hearing the commotion, out of it strolled the Princeps Peregrinorum. He must have a weak bladder. Normally when a man emerges looking nonchalant, adjusting his spear, you think, That must have been a big relief. Titus, of course, had a real spear.

  He surveyed the scene, appraising this new emergency, with the Parthian envoy aloft on his elephant. I stood still and braced myself. Titus drew back his arm and launched the Lucullan spear at Dolazebol.

  58

  He missed.

  ‘Fallen short! Oh, bad shot, Titus.’

  The Princeps turned to me. ‘Just because a man names a weapon after himself doesn’t mean it’s any good! The Lucullan was rubbish. He knew it. Never mind being executed. This spear was the biggest disappointment of his life.’

  59

  Catching wild animals is a duty of the aediles. Where is an aedile when he is needed?

  The elephant had found a sweetmeat stall, one I knew since it was a favourite haunt of Dromo’s. There, a young serving-girl fearlessly approached the huge beast. She seemed to know what to do. One at a time, she offered cakes and pastries. The elephant stood taking them, responding to her gently; it plainly intended to stay there until she stopped giving more. Dolazebol could not make it shift.

  A commotion in the other direction caught our attention. Now I guessed where Ritellius would have gone. ‘The ivory workshop!’

  The Princeps and I raced there.

  Anticipating trouble, some of the ivory workers were hurrying to carry their expensive pieces into a lock-up; it looked like a practised procedure for occasions of social unrest.

  Inside the workshop we found Ritellius. He was bleeding badly, too badly to have ridden far. Ilia, in tears, was kneeling by her husband, trying to staunch blood from the wound Perella had inflicted. Squilla was standing on the sidelines, white-faced, not helping. All as expected.

  We arrived at a critical moment. We heard wheels, amid hoofs clattering. It was a raeda, a four-wheeled mule-drawn formal carriage. Plank seats, cloth top, not comfortable but swanky. Only six people were allowed a wheeled carriage in Rome by day: those holy daughters of Rome, the Vestal Virgins. Seven if you count the Empress. (Not holy.)

  The raeda was driven by Fuscus. Rubrius jumped out. Fuscus began turning the vehicle. Rubrius grabbed Squilla, marched her out to the carriage, bundled her inside, closed the curtains.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’ screamed Ritellius after them.

  ‘The Vestals’ House. Shut up. No one will touch her there.’

  But a new menace was arriving to threaten the escape. ‘Parthians! He’ll never get through!’ muttered the Princeps, rushing back out to the street.

  ‘Watch!’ replied Rubrius, also assessing the danger: a newly arrived group of Parthian foot-soldiers, who all carried bows and full quivers of arrows. How had they got here? The envoy must have guessed where Ritellius would bring Squilla.

  The Princeps stamped and threw up his arms at them, as if shooing cows. They moved back slightly, then started jeering. The workshop men waved axes and staves.

  A moment later the Parthians also brought up a spectacular battle drum, so large it was carried on a donkey. When it was struck, the deep sound from that membraned monster could be heard for miles. They began drumming it. It truly was the most frightening sound most of us had ever heard – and now it was desecrating the sacred Roman Forum.

  Mounted men came with it. These heavy, exotic figures were covered with chain mail and even their horses were fully swathed in scale armour. Their leader was carrying, two-handed, a lance as heavy as an oar, plated with metal and nearly five yards long.

  ‘Cataphracts!’ groaned the Princeps. ‘It’s Carrhae all over again!’

  There were four. I remembered Trebianus complaining that cataphracts accompanied Dolazebol on his carnival parade coming to Rome. Even I could see these were the real thing. They looked terrifying and I knew that at Carrhae armed warriors like this had wreaked appalling damage.

  Despite our horror, a response was immediate. Alerted by the war drum, the Roman scouts last seen up on the Palatine reappeared in force, trotting towards us on their small tough ponies. Their Princeps shouted. Signalling the presence of enemy troops, he raised his arms, holding the corners of his cloak. The scouts sped up and fell to, fighting the Parthians. Parthian foot-soldiers tried replying, though to shoot arrows in a Roman street and hit targets is not the same as firing off across an open plain. But they had brought a fire pot and were now using bitumen. Anything could be set alight.

  Fuscus chivvied the mules to set off with the raeda. After only a few paces they were forced to a stop, their way blocked by the armoured cataphracts.

  We heard Squilla’s shrieks of terror from inside. Back in the workshop, Ritellius broke from Ilia. He hauled himself upright: jaw clenched, knuckles white, a man of action, a true spy. Somehow he made it back outside to his own bright-eyed Sabine mule, threw himself into the saddle, pulled at toggles, cast aside his cloak and revealed himself armed with various weapons, including a bow and arrows.

  Meanwhile the Princeps, on foot, headed straight for the cataphract who was holding the huge lance. Fearless, he carried out a trick that Roman mercenaries had used in Parthia: he ducked right beneath the horse, then with his sword slashed upwards at its unprotected belly, disembowelling the poor creature. The horse collapsed. The cataphract fell heavily, then lay helpless in the street because of the weight of his armour, while members of the public set about him. The mounted scouts yelled in triumph and began closing around the other three armoured men, ready for the kill. Fuscus was able to move the raeda. He drove off unnoticed.

  Ritellius rode up, leaned down from his mule and captured the fallen cataphract’s war lance. Infuriated by this outrage, Parthian foot-soldiers began chasing him. Ritellius was riding around in wild circles, taunting his opponents with the captured lance. Soaked in blood, wild-eyed and whooping, he was unforgettable.