‘They were tortured and decapitated. Domitian had the severed heads despatched to Rome, then displayed in the Forum. It was the crudest warning to the Senate – this is what happens to those who oppose me. We had no idea. We turned up at the Curia for normal business,’ said Quintus, in a bleak tone, ‘and, without warning or explanation, found a sickening row of bloody heads. Some, of course, were senators’ young relatives.’ Suddenly Justinus shifted in his seat. ‘That’s enough. Don’t ask me any more.’

  I was surprised he cut me off. ‘Hey! Why this caution?’

  ‘You are an informer for Domitian now.’

  Too late, I grasped the implications. With our paranoid emperor, no one trusted anyone, even close family. Any indiscreet talk might be reported. Your relatives, your friends or your slaves might betray you.

  Quintus pointedly changed the subject.

  Like Philippus, he gazed around. He asked how I was coping. I assured him I had plans for new staff to help; I knew a good steward who might be at a loose end. At once Quintus kindly whistled up his escort, extracted an address from me, and sent a man off to invite Gratus to come along later to discuss whether he was interested.

  This positive action cheered me. So when, shortly afterwards, I wrapped a stole around my head for decency and set off to the Palatine, I walked with a light step as if I was making progress.

  I knew my uncle’s discretion was wise. Luckily for Philippus, evaluating the widows was not the first job that had made me uncomfortable. Informers have to do whatever comes along. ‘Just like lawyers!’ I had teased Quintus. He took it badly.

  Before I began, I walked around the Capitol to the Atrium of Liberty, where some of the censors’ records are kept, and asked for an old contact. Sodalus was a sludge-coloured slave in a grunge-coloured tunic, though he persuaded himself he was clean-cut. A clue to his vanity was his red-laced shoes, which must have got him noticed when he was out on the pull among his cronies.

  I asked him to dig out any scrolls that contained references to the two families I was investigating. He grumbled. I said it was official. He agreed to assist but I had to come back later. ‘Much later.’ He scratched a boil on his cheek for emphasis.

  ‘You’re a gem, Sodalus. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Too soon!’

  ‘Wrong, sweetie. It is for the Emperor.’ I already enjoyed this deployment of the august one to speed up results.

  Well, it might work. Sodalus gave me a curl of the lip that implied everyone tried to use ‘imperial business’ as a fulcrum. I stressed that time was of the essence. He scoffed, ‘What’s new?’

  For a professional informer, gaining information is not difficult. Your problem is gaining it early enough, squeezing a story out of some layabout when you really need it. Dealing with a slouch like Sodalus was routine for me. He would have scrolls lined up tomorrow. He knew I always tipped him well.

  Adequately, anyway.

  ‘Gorgeous shoes, Sodalus, by the way.’ Always leave a contact with something positive.

  I strolled back through the top of the Forum and up to the Palatine.

  The palace was new, though the atmosphere was very old: suspicion. In the lofty, marble-slathered corridors, everyone I passed seemed to look at me too hard. They were probably all just palace scribes, walking purposefully between offices to avoid doing any work. Some might be outsiders, maybe tourists or students of high-end design, coming to see the famous innovative architecture and the gilding, perhaps taking advantage of Domitian being away. To me, they all looked like snitches.

  Of course, in the world we inhabited, clerks and visitors genuinely were potential spies.

  Joking internally about this sinister environment, not to mention my own role as a hireling, I found the office where Philippus worked. This took time. Here there were rooms within halls within segmented suites. I met twists and turns and altered levels. Somewhere Domitian and his family lived inaccessibly in gorgeous boltholes, which one could regard as deserved retreats – or as hideaways for a tyrant fearful of attack. Locked doors protected them.

  Even though Domitian was absent, he had left behind an oppressive presence.

  Eventually I was directed by a slave with a mop. There were quite a few of those, no doubt observing who came and went. I found Philippus pretending to read a scroll. He and I had a short briefing session. I reminded him my fee was to be paid before I started.

  There was a pause while a slave was sent for the money. I sat tight in Philippus’ office until he produced it. He pursed his lips. I refused to be cowed. It took some time for the money to arrive, so he gave me some facts as a briefing.

  The widow of Sallustius Lucullus was being kept on ice in an anteroom; in due course I whisked in, scarves a-flutter, full of insincere apologies for having kept her waiting.

  6

  Philippus did not come in with me. I preferred to introduce myself.

  The widow wore dark clothes, very formal; she was discreetly jewelled, pampered with undetectable creams and cosmetics. Two maids chaperoned her, dressed almost as expensively – which meant more expensively than me. Used to sharing her husband’s consular status, she did not rise when I entered, or suggest I could sit.

  I seated myself on a couch nevertheless, straight-backed, between its tasselled cushion rolls. I let her inspect me: unaccompanied, long gown in good pale cloth, dark hair put up tidily though clearly by me and not some deft slave. I, too, had a discreet necklace and ear-rings, though unremarkable. I was twenty-nine, with an accent she would not be able to place and a restraint that failed to impress her.

  ‘My name is Flavia Albia. I am the wife of a magistrate. I am to interview you about your late husband.’ While I was speaking, I took out my note-tablet and stylus, though I laid them beside me on the couch. I wanted to look professional yet not threatening.

  I began with the obvious: had she accompanied her husband on his British posting? No. Well, that made everything easier. She was never there. How could she know anything?

  For women of rank, it was optional to accompany a husband on tour. Wives whose marriages were cool tended to remain in Italy. Provinces with high military activity, such as Britain, could well be omitted, though a governor educating unkempt provincials might welcome the presence of a cultured wife. Wise wives, those who cared, went along anyway to deter their men from taking mistresses. ‘Can I ask what influenced your decision?’

  ‘It did not seem necessary for me to go.’

  I feigned sympathy. ‘The climate, the bleak amenities … Actually, it’s not that bad. I once stayed in the governor’s palace at Londinium. I found it comfortable.’ To a scavenger straight off the streets it had been staggering luxury. I remembered enormous interiors, mighty halls, quiet formal gardens, heated mosaic floors, even glazed windows … ‘I was impressed by the sense of diplomatic business. Brisk military aides. Efficient clerks. Receptions for traders and so forth. The officials I met seemed honest, people with a mission, people with vision.’

  Despite my sympathetic approach, the widow made no response.

  I asked whether her husband had written to her from Britain. He had, but the subject matter was mundane. Family matters. Domestic arrangements, birthdays … She claimed she had kept nothing. If she had any sense, she would now go home and burn everything she could find. Had she unbent at all towards me during the interview, I might have advised her to do so.

  ‘Have you been given any documents that he left in Londinium?’

  ‘No.’

  If true, some loyal aide might have weeded the filing trays. Perhaps Domitian’s executioner rootled through, looking for evidence, then carried it off. Or, so far from Rome, rather than pack up stuff to go back across Europe, it might all have been simply thrown away.

  ‘I presume you can’t say, then, whether Sallustius Lucullus communicated with other governors. You see where I am leading. First, did he contact Antonius Saturninus?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ I saw the woman relax slightly. She must have known she could safely pretend ignorance. Philippus had told me there was a problem with correspondence in Upper Germany.

  ‘Unfortunately, everything in writing is lost,’ I admitted openly. ‘It caused quite a controversy, as I am sure you know. When Lappius Maximus arrived at Moguntiacum, he took it upon himself to have a bonfire. Norbanus, from Rhaetia, helped him do it. They were censured later, though not punished. To be honest, I find it odd that Maximus and Norbanus got away with this.’

  For once my companion showed a trace of satisfaction. ‘Domitian must have been furious.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agreed. ‘They destroyed anything that could be incriminating. Some people thought Lappius Maximus was protecting himself.’

  This time she was wise enough not to react.

  ‘If he was organised, Saturninus would have sounded out everyone,’ I suggested. ‘Even replies of “No, thanks” to him would have damned people for Domitian.’

  ‘I was told,’ said the widow, ‘Maximus and Norbanus only wanted to defuse the situation. Staunch recriminations. Saturninus was dead, so let it all die down.’

  ‘Quite. I suppose,’ I continued, ‘you cannot tell me either whether your husband corresponded with Civica Cerialis, in Asia?’

  I was correct. An autocratic shrug told me she could not.

  ‘There is a question mark over Cerialis. How did he respond to the problem with the False Nero? So you have no idea whether your husband took an interest in that?’

  The widow claimed not; she said events in Britain and Asia were unconnected. Frankly, I thought she was right.

  ‘My mistake! Anyway, uproar in Palestine would mean little in Londinium. In general, I suppose governors in provinces that are very remote from one another would only correspond if they were good friends. So, here at home, did your families mingle?’

  She claimed they knew each other socially, but were never close. Uncle Quintus had prophesied this. The two families might have spent every summer picnicking together on Lake Albanus but they would deny it now.

  I changed tack. ‘What about the extraordinary story that your husband invented a new javelin and named it after himself? Does that sound like him to you?’

  His widow only sighed and made a gesture with both hands. She might have been deploring his hobbies, blaming his lack of tact, or simply helpless before a stupid and unfounded accusation. Unable to tell, I toughened up: ‘So tell me what happened about it. All I know is that your husband was not recalled to Rome. He remained in his province and was “executed” there. How exactly did he die?’

  Suddenly, she lost her control. For once I witnessed emotion. Whether she loved her husband, or how much, was still unclear, but Sallustius’ widow was definitely angry on his behalf and at last she showed it.

  ‘Karus.’ She was both adamant and furious. ‘I was never told how, but I know who was responsible! Julius Karus organised everything. And the horrible man has been foully rewarded for it.’

  I picked up my stylus. Julius Karus. That I did write down.

  Assessing her, I decided to stop. She was truly upset; I could see her shaking. The two maids looked daggers towards me and wanted to rush to her. She was too proud; she held up a hand to stop them. Although she quickly restrained herself and made no further outcry, I ended the interview.

  7

  Philippus had gone to lunch. It was the middle of the afternoon, so I took that as a euphemism.

  A certain Fuscus, who was quiet with an air of menace, was in the office when I emerged. This man seemed to have no other work. He said he would attend to anything I needed, although when I asked who Karus was, he claimed not to know.

  If he did know (I was thinking like one of them now), I deduced he wanted to work out why I needed the information and how it impinged on policy. People in palaces give nothing away until they believe they understand your motive in asking. He would probably check with Philippus whether I had clearance.

  ‘There has been a change of venue for your other appointment, Flavia Albia. The woman did not wish to come here. She was offered a very private suite in the Empress’s apartment as an alternative – the Empress is away, there would be no awkwardness – but she has chosen the House of Livia instead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Palaces upset her. Since her husband died.’ Fuscus then surprised me by coming out with a useful suggestion: ‘Rubrius may know who Karus is.’ He was probably still wary, but would pass my problem to this other person.

  He led me to Rubrius, presumably an intelligence agent of some kind. On the way I asked, making conversation, ‘What do you do, Fuscus? Do you tend the drop-boxes where people’s slaves can leave notes betraying their masters – or are you a trained killer?’

  At the second suggestion he jumped. I was surprised. Not that he was a trained killer, but that I had guessed right. I had only meant it as a joke.

  As we walked I noticed that Fuscus paced extremely quietly and held his arms loose, with slightly bent elbows, as if he was ready to whip out a hidden weapon.

  In law, even soldiers are not armed in central Rome.

  In the palace, even trusted staff are not supposed to carry weapons in case they attack the Emperor.

  The next man, Rubrius, also subtly gave the impression he could garrotte a sentry silently, when he had to. He had probably been on more paramilitary training courses than cyphering or shorthand lectures, though he was currently engaged in desk-work.

  He introduced himself as assistant to Philippus. He was mild-mannered, though carried the air of having long experience in the field; ethnic artefacts hung on the walls of his office. I was sure there was more to him than he revealed at first meeting. If you were hiding under a hedge with him, Rubrius would know how to pee undetectably and which grubs were safe to eat.

  He appeared to be sifting through intelligence reports, which he did with a slight frown of concentration as if the world depended on their proper interpretation. Perhaps I fantasised. He could merely have been auditing messengers’ expenses. My father had told me that to produce a claim for imperial reimbursement required skills on the same level as carving a marble nude for an arts connoisseur. According to Pa (especially if he had had a drink or two), an expense sheet that would actually be paid, without deductions, was as beauteous and timeless as the best work of Phidias.

  Rubrius looked boyish, about thirty, though on close inspection was older. His manner was friendly. When I was a girl I would have thought him handsome and lust-worthy, though now I merely took note of the white portrait plaque on his writing-table of a woman who must have been his wife. He had her set to one side so he would not feel unduly monitored if he went off into a dream about someone more voluptuous.

  He, too, could not help me with Karus, though when he said he would find out, I believed he might. He told me to come back to the palace after I had seen the second widow.

  8

  Fuscus escorted me the House of Livia. It was never open to the public. The custodian took a look at my sombre guide and let us in.

  The old Emperor Augustus liked to pretend he was an ‘ordinary’ citizen who lived simply. Since he and his wife Livia had grand separate houses on the Palatine, this plea of an old-fashioned lifestyle was crazy. I despised it, along with the claim that his womenfolk wove all the family’s clothes at home. Judging by what empresses and princesses tend to wear, they must have had a high skills level. And given his daughter Julia’s notorious number of lovers, one wonders how she found the time to run up Papa’s tunics too. People say he felt the cold and sometimes layered on three.

  My own father hates twee gifts crafted by his children. He searches for lived-in tunics on old clothes stalls. When he finds one he can tolerate, he wears it for the next ten years.

  By Falco’s standards I was much too clean and neat today. I never believe women in any business have to be as scruffy as men. Anyway, I was meant to look more like a matron canvassing for temple donations than an informer condemning suspects.

  When I tripped into the rich, high-ceilinged atrium in my middle-class sandals (smart but serviceable), various attendants who had come with the widow were hanging about below old mythological frescos. They were fancy types who ignored us. Fuscus went to find someone in charge and say we had arrived. He made me wait and told me not to explore. According to his protocol, spies should not case a meeting-place themselves but rely on sidekicks. That explains why intelligence so often goes wrong.

  Bored, I inspected the frescos. Io was having a bad day, tied up to prevent her enjoying herself. A couple of gods or heroes were posing ineffectually, with no thought of unfettering her.

  Fuscus came back. ‘The women are in an anteroom.’ He pointed at an adjacent salon.

  ‘Women plural?’

  ‘She brought her sister-in-law. You go in. I’ll stay here to listen to what the chaperones are saying.’ They would be stupid to say anything in front of him – but if people behaved sensibly the intelligence service would collapse.

  There was no slave to open the heavy double doors. I managed their big knobs for myself. I had chosen not to knock.

  The grand dames waiting were relatives of men with four names: Caius Vettulenus Civica Cerialis and Sextus ditto ditto ditto. In public such women wore their nobility like a uniform. When the Empress Livia had sat with a tisane beneath these elegant painted garlands of flowers and fruits, plotting to poison her relatives, I expect she breathed with similar disdain. She, too, would have resented my low presence.

  The wife of the executed governor had dressed like a bereaved matron, as carefully as the previous widow. Dark gown, in fine fabric, jewellery that made pompous statements. Perhaps the two women had colluded beforehand. Girls on a spree. Sisters in misfortune. Conferring on how to deal with me.

  This widow was wrapped in a heavy head veil. I asked her to lower the redundant garment. We were women together, not men at a sacrifice. Since her husband had been dead for more than a year she could not be concealing the ravages of grief. In any case, the image offered was not tear-stained.