Gratus, the steward I was hoping to poach, had sent word that he could not leave his current post. He suggested I try a widow we knew and had sent her along. She was sitting out in our courtyard, so Tiberius and I hovered in the atrium to discuss it.

  I knew Graecina was a dedicated home-maker. After her husband died, I had myself suggested she become a concierge. She needed income: she had two young children. Their present home on the Esquiline was too far away so Graecina would come as live-in staff; she would want to bring her offspring. Tiberius checked whether I objected.

  We were desperate. They were quiet. I decided we could find room.

  They had also owned a trying dog. Tiberius said it had passed away.

  ‘Done!’ I strode out to hire Graecina.

  Her little boy and girl were politely allowing Dromo to throw a ball to them. Their mother must have told them to behave nicely. Dromo had similar orders from Tiberius. He shot us a baleful look, but they all carried on gently tossing the small ball. Things were looking up. Our home was a haven of obedience – at least temporarily.

  Graecina, a free woman, was neat and conscientious. Short and stout, she had dark olive skin with darker moles and eyebrows that came almost together over her nose. Her late husband had been a house steward, adept and unobtrusive. They rented their own apartment, but she had learned from him the management of someone else’s household.

  Tired out by my day, I let her ask the questions. She was practical: the tasks? The salary? When to start? Time to herself for looking after her children? Did we have any children?

  ‘Give us a chance,’ I muttered. I stifled the fact that my husband had lost interest, saying smoothly, ‘So far, Graecina, there are just the two of us. We have one slave, Dromo.’ I let her judge for herself what he was like. ‘Beyond that wall is a builder’s yard, which belongs to us. Workmen may come and go sometimes; their needs must be accommodated. It will be for you to suggest what other staff we need in the house, and help us vet contenders.’

  I could tell she liked having choice. I hoped that didn’t mean she would take over completely.

  ‘I have had a look at your kitchen, Albia. It needs a lot done.’

  ‘Give me a list.’ I had peered in that morning, winced, and shelved the problem for later. Later was now. Well, having someone to organise was supposed to be what I wanted. Thank goodness I had forced Philippus to pay me up front. Doing a kitchen would probably wipe it out.

  ‘Will there be a lot of visitors?’ With her pre-planned questions, Graecina must be a woman who made mental lists, I thought. What was more, she could remember them.

  ‘Friends and family will be welcome. Otherwise we shall live quietly. However, people will call here on business. A room must be kept for interviews – that gives privacy to our clients, but also steers strangers away from family areas.’

  ‘I shall make it nice for you.’

  I remembered the apartment where she lived and was suddenly nervous. Our interview room would be dressed up with stripy floor mats and fringed table doilies.

  ‘Not too nice,’ suggested Tiberius, noticing my caution. ‘Sometimes it can be best to keep things bare, so unwelcome supplicants are less inclined to linger.’

  Graecina shook her head at him. ‘Well, that’s why you will have me here, sir. If people hang on too long, don’t worry. I can bustle in and shoo them off.’

  Hmm.

  You are too busy. You hire someone to help you. You are then beset with trouble, trying to make them work the way you want …

  Oh, hell, it would be all right. It had to be.

  I had brought food in, picked up at markets as I came home. Straightaway, Graecina told Dromo to serve – ‘And don’t pick at the food you hand around!’ – enjoying herself as she decided which would be our mealtime crockery.

  We possessed supper bowls. Many of them. We were newly married. Our wedding had been formal, so invited guests had presented us with horribly decorated pottery. I had to see that these things were ‘accidentally’ broken and tossed down the lavatory. Then I could bring out my own Arretine again.

  ‘Oh, these new ones are lovely, Albia!’

  ‘Yes, aren’t they, Graecina? … We’ll soon be straight,’ I assured Tiberius privately.

  ‘All normal,’ he answered, as if in agreement. Yet he still sounded as if, for him, nothing could ever be normal again.

  Everyone in my new household ate together that evening. I said that on occasions Tiberius and I would want to be private. I hinted that sometimes Graecina would like to be alone with her children. In general, however, we were an inclusive household. I knew that that was what Tiberius believed in.

  I am not like that. Still, I had a lifetime habit of bunking off by myself if I had had enough of people, so I would escape when I wanted. Ask my family. Watch them roll their eyes and groan.

  After a simple supper, Graecina took the children home to make arrangements for their move. She had instructed Dromo to wash up the dishes; when he remembered, we heard vague splashing noises.

  At last I was at home, fed and at peace, with my husband. Then I established what would be the custom of our married life: telling Tiberius Manlius the story of my day.

  12

  He was a good listener, even quieter now he was sick. I kept it succinct, just my thoughts so far. It can be useful to let a night pass while you absorb information. Even in sleep your brain carries on churning.

  Tiberius gave little more than an occasional nod. I like a man who knows not to interrupt. Relaxed by a beaker of watered wine with supper, I liked this one considerably tonight for other reasons. What is the point of a new bridegroom if you don’t find him alluring?

  Mine caught what I was thinking. He looked as if he was hearing from some neighbourhood thief that, even though he had pork dripping all down his tunic and was picking shreds of meat from between his teeth, he was absolutely not the person who had stolen his neighbour’s pig.

  I sighed but gave in. I am not a pushy lover. Anyway, he still had painful bruising and I was now too weary.

  Tiberius put aside the stern expression. I knew he would make suggestions without taking over my case, so I was keen for his input.

  The washing-up noises had ceased. Dromo came out to the courtyard, looking put-upon. The front of his tunic was wet through. ‘Is that woman who came here supposed to be in charge of me?’

  Normally when Tiberius was present I left him to grapple with his slave, but tonight I tried to save him and intervened. ‘This can be discussed tomorrow. Now don’t interrupt us, please, Dromo.’

  He ignored me. ‘Is she?’ he whimpered at Tiberius.

  ‘Tomorrow, boy.’

  ‘That’s no answer!’ The slave was about to protest further.

  ‘No.’ Tiberius raised a finger, although he had not raised his voice. Its steeliness was sufficient. If I had been about to ask for a bigger dress allowance, I would have left it until next week. Even Dromo subsided. ‘Albia and I are talking. Find yourself somewhere out of the way, Dromo, and leave us alone.’

  The slave stumbled off. His master did not look at me. I sat quiet.

  Eventually Tiberius spoke one word on my investigation: ‘Reate.’

  For some time after that I simply sat, considering.

  When Lusia Paullina had mentioned Reate, the name seemed familiar. I had never been there. It is a small town, about two days’ journey east of Rome, though the Sabine hills are visible from much closer. I knew the inhabitants were an ancient people, that life there is rural. The region is most famous for producing mules.

  It came to me. ‘Vespasian! The mule drover.’ One of the insulting nicknames used to demean that emperor.

  He had been a new man. His family were of middle rank; his brother their first senator. Vespasian had emerged from a traditional country background, which he refused to be ashamed of; his ancestors had made their money from tax collecting and supplying mule trains. While he held the prestigious governorship of Africa, he was even accused of running a salt-fish business. The Flavians got by with mortgages, trade, intermarriage for money − and sticking close together for mutual benefit.

  ‘See what I mean?’

  I thanked Tiberius for the clue. ‘Yes, of course. Vespasian came from Reate.’

  ‘He was born there,’ said Tiberius. ‘Or some hamlet nearby – Falacrina?’

  ‘He always kept the family estate. He went there frequently. He and Titus both died while travelling to Reate for summer vacations. And,’ I found myself growing excited, ‘the Vettuleni belong to the same area. The widows have gone back to live there.’

  ‘Mm!’ Tiberius was stretching his legs, as if they ached. ‘You can imagine it there, especially in summer. Big extended families, enjoying the classic country life.’ He had been brought up in a rural area himself, though nearer to Rome. ‘Landowners roll up their sleeves and join their workers in the fields sometimes to show they are true countrymen at heart. They hunt, they fish, they attend local markets and fairs. They teach their boys about crops, animals, the phases of the moon and what it means for sowing and reaping; they count off the stars on country nights, they listen for the owls. Dreamy days, followed by early nights.’

  I nodded. ‘The women organise outings and picnics, where they sit for hours at long tables under trees – along with their visiting neighbours. The neighbours – that’s it! The Vettuleni are family friends. This brings Domitian’s killing into focus. When he executed Civica Cerialis, he was not simply removing an official he distrusted. It was an incredible act of betrayal.’

  Tiberius agreed: ‘Vespasian, his brother Sabinus, Titus, the two Vettulenus brothers – you can imagine they all had the stocky build, the faint country accents that Rome’s better-spoken élite mocked, the same no-nonsense ways of thinking. When the men came to Rome, as they had to for power and status, they collaborated to gain advancement.’

  ‘Neither the Flavians, Vespasian and Sabinus nor the Vettulenus brothers had consular fathers. They must have created their own niche together.’

  ‘Out-manoeuvring the old urban smoothies who despised their background—’

  ‘Rewarding each other, once they were in a position to do so.’

  I blew out a long, slow breath. ‘I thought the sister-in-law, Lusia Paullina, was being outspoken. But how restrained she really was today − and how very bitter the Vettulenus widow must be feeling.’

  ‘They have known Domitian since he was a chubby little tot in a loincloth,’ said Tiberius.

  I snorted. ‘I bet he was the horrid child nobody wanted to hold on their lap. Now I can see why Lusia denounced him as “that man” with such vehemence, almost the first thing she said to me. The Emperor she once saw as just an unlovable, attention-seeking brat is now a paranoid killer – even murdering family friends.’

  ‘He lost his mother young.’ My husband was a tolerant man.

  ‘So did you.’

  ‘Not so early … Domitian had to live through his loss in the shadow of a brother who was ten years older.’ Tiberius might have been remembering his own bereavement. ‘Anyway, Titus was off being educated at the palace with Claudius’ son Britannicus, while the young one was only home-schooled. Vespasian was away a great deal. So Domitian grew up feeling abandoned,’ Tiberius mused. ‘Desperate to be loved.’

  I did not want to feel sorry for him, but I said, ‘He will have heard them, all those close-knit Sabine friends and neighbours, saying how much his so-charming elder brother resembled their father, how close Vespasian and Titus were – such a shame the younger one could not be more like that.’

  Everything made more sense. Tiberius said, ‘When Domitian awarded Cerialis the sought-after province of Asia, he was still keeping to the old loyalty, continuing Vespasian’s policy – but he’s a brooder. Once he saw an excuse, his jealousy came out. His father would have been horrified.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the point,’ I mused. ‘He was lashing out against Vespasian, Titus, all the old clique of friends and colleagues.’

  Tiberius now grinned at me. ‘You should have fun trying to write this up.’

  ‘Thanks, love!’

  ‘Show me your draft.’ It was an offer, not an instruction.

  I sighed, though I welcomed it. ‘Yes, it will be tricky. Don’t blame the False Nero; the governor’s death was caused by upbringing and spite. All because somebody long ago wouldn’t let grabby little Domitian hog the strawberries at picnics.’

  I believed our premise. If you have better ideas on the Flavian coterie, feel free to table them. Don’t try it in my house, though.

  After a moment I said, in a more subdued mood, ‘We should have been nicer to your nephews at our wedding. I hope they don’t turn out this badly because they sense we loathed them.’

  There were three. All under ten. I had not taken to them.

  Tiberius shook his head. I could see him anxious over his young nephews. Their parents’ marriage had stumbled. The boys had inherited bad traits from their father. It was an unhappy family. So I said, ‘It probably only matters if you give unlovable children all the powers of an emperor.’

  Unfortunately Rome had done that so I would have to fudge the truth. My report would end up blaming the False Nero after all. I could not point out that Domitian was guilty of personal spite.

  Domitian believed people constantly lied to him. This was why. Even I, a legend for fearless plain speaking, would be forced to prevaricate. He had turned himself into a tyrant. His cruelty only encouraged the lies he feared.

  I took it further. As a result of living with this cruelty, even people who really knew better might turn to a new claimant. Any ludicrous adventurer clasping a harp might succeed. People were desperate. Those who had any influence might see it as a duty to help Rome emerge from constant fear.

  So, oddly enough, there could be truth in the Emperor’s accusation: Vettulenus Civica Cerialis might have despaired so much, he had decided that the cruel brat spawned by his family’s old Sabine friend must be removed. A change might make the Empire better and safer. So, mad as it had seemed when I began, perhaps the governor of Asia really had thrown in his lot with the False Nero.

  13

  We spent another chaste night. Most informers claim to have rampaging sex lives and sometimes it is even true. Otherwise we pretend that abstinence keeps your mind fresh. Gladiators may be given sumptuous eve-of-fight banquets, with fornication for their dessert course, yet how many have been killed because of disorienting hangovers and blurred vision? The celibate informer is a sad figure, but at no such risk.

  So much had happened I could hardly believe it was only a day since my wedding. Tiberius had a more peaceful night. I slept enough. I listened anxiously to his breathing. In between I was aware of Rome, plagued by the rattle of delivery carts, with their antisocial drivers providing hideous thumps, crashes, loud conversations and curses. Once their noises finished, we were left with the near-lawless city in the dead of night. Up here on the Aventine it normally grew quieter in the hour before dawn; even so, there could be unexplained shouts or bursts of drunken song, often followed by neighbours throwing open shutters to yell abuse. The vigiles whistled, then dogs barked at the vigiles. If someone screamed, the protocol was, bury your head under a pillow and play deaf.

  The first week I lived there, I found this terrible. Soon I was used to it. You blot it out. Next morning, bright enough, I returned to see Sodalus, the archive clerk at the Atrium of Liberty. The streets were wet and washed. Stall-holders opened up, sweeping rubbish to the next stall where the owner had not yet arrived, arranging cabbages and leeks in neat rows and whorls. There were scents of fresh bread and fresh flowers, barely drowning the other smells of fresh donkey droppings and old dog dirt.

  Breakfast had been bleak at our house. No one had been out to buy food. Apparently that was my job.

  I left Tiberius at home thinking about what tunic to wear and what fashionable style to comb his hair into. We joked about him staying in to run our household while I, the wife, went out to work.

  Our laughter had an edge. He was a Roman male: he had eight hundred years of history to overcome. Nevertheless, I said sternly it was up to him to install the new housekeeper and keep Dromo happy. I claimed I intended to work on my report undisturbed at the library.

  For light relief I gave Tiberius my drawings from the House of Livia. ‘Don’t you bother your pretty head over anything too difficult. This should keep you out of trouble − lovely décor ideas for you to peruse when you have a free moment.’

  He went along with the game. ‘I suppose I am not to order anything new until you agree we can afford it?’

  ‘Darling, we are not made of money! I’m not toiling among the spies so you can fritter my fees away on needless luxuries …’ I could have added quips about him not sneaking off to have affairs with charioteers behind my back, but in our present regime sex was too tricky a subject. ‘I’ll be home when I can. Be good!’

  My husband was a man of rectitude. Olympus, I wouldn’t have trusted him alone in the house otherwise. Who wants to return and find their partner has sold all the silver and invited in pretty boys who say they are masseurs?

  No chance. Dromo would never bestir himself to let them indoors.

  I set off to help the intelligence service scour Rome for plots: disloyalty at home or attacks from outside. This would keep us safe so householders could sleep well in their beds and prosper: that is how spies tell it. Naturally, we believe them. We live in fear. We desperately want to feel that trained men who know what they are doing are constantly protecting our interests.

  At the Atrium of Liberty, using my own skill in passing a discreet under-the-counter payment, I persuaded Sodalus to show me any documents that concerned G. Sallustius Lucullus or C. Vettulenus Civica Cerialis. As I expected, despite much complaining, he had found a few scrolls.

  ‘This is a one-off, Flavia Albia,’ he threatened. ‘Don’t expect any more favours.’