It was relevant. If he had been mediocre, we would not now have a climate where people wanted to believe he had never died. Nero’s crazy lifetime had led to this curious afterlife, one that just possibly might destabilise the Empire. At least the phenomenon was paying me fees.

  Philippus was intensely clever, yet only interested in ideas. People I knew would have wanted to nip in and inspect the works; indeed, I might have followed them, though hoping it would not involve too many ladders or ropes. I can be intrepid. I have no limits, except: will it get dirt on my dress? Philippus conceded there was a little maintenance staircase by the spindle column; he would not let me inspect it. Mechanics held no interest for him, apart from the working of his rivals’ duplicitous brains.

  The finger-ringed functionary ended his conversation and came quickly across to us. Effortlessly working up a warm charm, he held out his hand to me. He knew my name. ‘Flavia Albia, welcome.’ His grip crushed my small fingers. I hate that.

  Philippus introduced him as Flavius Abascantus. ‘One of our most able talents.’ He did not sound too envious or overawed, though he clearly expected me to have heard of this prominent imperial freedman.

  What I knew was not good. Tiberius and I had recently been involved in an election, where we discovered that Abascantus had influenced the results. I won’t say he fixed it. I can’t claim we knew he took bribes. But our sources had implicated him as ‘helping’ one of the candidates (not the man we supported); Claudius Laeta, Philippus’ now deceased father, had denounced Abascantus to us in fierce terms. Laeta took pride in being thought straight. He never was entirely − but he loathed public servants who were actively disloyal.

  Abascantus had been away from Rome during the election, absent on what is called ‘gardening leave’. The time-honoured euphemism for officials suspended from duty, it can be invoked for basic incompetence or laziness, but more often for corruption. Yet here he was now. I could tell he was neither inept nor lazy. That left the other thing.

  He was still young enough to have thick golden hair, which he pushed back in a fetching way. I had to clear my throat at a waft of scented lotion, newly applied. He was the kind who uses a toothpick and gargles with mint before an important meeting.

  Apparently he was back in favour. He was full of self-assurance, as if nothing had ever happened. How had he wangled that? Since Domitian had been abroad for a year, both Abascantus’ dismissal and his recall must have been arranged by correspondence. He was in charge of correspondence. Who wrote to the Emperor about him?

  Alternatively, were the suspension and its removal Domitian’s own ideas? Did our Master want to keep Abascantus on the hop? If so, it gave an insight into how insecure all the palace freedmen were.

  Today Abascantus looked securely in charge. In his presence Philippus became subordinate and diffident.

  Abascantus said he had seen my report. ‘Beautifully put!’ I felt hot pride; I could not help it.

  Other people began arriving. They came in dribs and drabs because in Rome time is measured by season; with twelve hours in the day and the night, they vary in length between summer to winter as the light changes; people are only loosely aware when hours start and end. Arranging a meeting is tricky. If you live in Rome, you gain a knack of judging it – or of not minding when assignations go awry.

  When a group of men gathers in a room, each arrives in a different style. Abascantus had been ahead of us, taking command of the room no doubt. Philippus was subdued. Of the others, one crashed in and paused on the threshold to make an entrance; another sidled as if trying to hide himself; one bounded; one hesitated while blinking; one stepped like a tall spider on curiously articulated legs.

  Most attendees wore the white, gold-trimmed tunics that were imperial livery. No doubt it saved them wondering what to put on in the mornings. Abascantus had the richest material, the widest and heaviest braid, the finest belt. He wore not just rings but bracelets. Today was his tasteful chalcedony day, though I guessed he had a large collection.

  Some of the others carried scrolls. One brought his late lunch, then chomped it. Everyone else seemed used to him: no one commented. On the whole I thought them a shambly, uninspiring, unkempt lot − types you would try to avoid sitting next to at the theatre. Nobody was introduced so I had no way to judge their importance.

  We used only part of the room, because of its central column. I was intrigued that this left another area, the other side, where someone could easily have lurked and listened.

  In our part, slaves stood on the perimeter with cups of water. Everyone sat on portable stools. Abascantus chaired the gathering. He alone had a throne-like armed chair, with a goat-legged tripod table to hold his documents, and had his drink poured in his own special glass cup. A slave polished it first on his tunic hem, which I happened to notice. Not too good, if you think about slaves’ habits.

  I noticed that Abascantus spoke perfect Latin, with a well-trained accent and in a beautiful voice. The Emperor must regard him as an ornament to the court; Abascantus knew it, too. He began, saying they would defer other agenda items and take my report first.

  Abascantus had a briefing scroll that a slave must have prepared for him. The Secretary may wish to take Flavia Albia’s report at the start, so she can be released. Flavia Albia has been procured by Philippus, with the council’s agreement. She is the daughter of M. Didius Falco, sometime agent for the Divine Vespasian Augustus …

  No copies had been circulated. Abascantus had the original written into his brief so he could read it out. (How fortunate I had kept it short.) A slip marked the place for him; as he unrolled the scroll to the position, he lifted out the marker, which he then used to stir his drink. As he slowly moved the spill around, I watched viscous honey rise up the transparent glass through a lighter liquid, mingling together.

  He read well, as of course he would. He enjoyed the sound of his own elegant reading. On finishing, he let the two ends of the scroll rock back almost together, laying it on his side-table while he quickly surveyed the room; he complimented me again, then paused. He sipped his drink. It was a stagey moment.

  When Abascantus put down his glass, he set it on the scroll, between the rolled ends, so it kept the place more firmly than his spill, though was at risk of marking a circle on the inky papyrus. My mother would have slapped his wrist for using a document as a drinks stand.

  ‘Is there anything you want to add, Flavia Albia? Anything you felt unable to include in the written record?’

  I chose to shake my head. However, I told them I was willing to answer questions.

  Abascantus gave a grateful gleam, though he pressed on. ‘Everything seems in order. Nothing we had not expected. Are we agreed, no further action shall be taken?’

  Was he rushing them? Or merely a crisp chairman?

  At first no one spoke. They chewed their water cups or stared at the floor. It was as if nobody wanted to offend Abascantus by contradiction. Only when he moved in his chair, smoothing back his golden hair, about to finalise the discussion, did a slumped figure pipe up.

  His first remark was provocative. ‘Can I say, Abascantus, welcome back? We all thought we had lost you.’ The Secretary will expect committee members to compliment him on his safe return … Since presumably Abascantus had gone away because he had offended the Emperor, this was a deliberate dig.

  ‘Reports of my retirement were, as you see, misguided!’ answered the freedman, smoothly.

  To me, his attitude was quite wrong. His smile was too condescending, gloating. He seemed to be taunting others who had hoped to see him in disgrace, hoped to watch his fall. I found him cocky, which to me meant unreliable. He showed no sense of how narrowly he had escaped, no gratitude for survival. Anyone who thought him corrupt, and who loathed it, would be furious.

  Philippus stared at the floor with mild-mannered interest, as if watching a woodlouse going for a walk on the tesserae.

  This man who had tried to rile Abascantus gave the impression he was often outspoken. Every meeting harbours one of those, the routine troublemaker, harmless once he has been allowed his say. When he turned his attention to my own report, gesturing dismissively to the scroll on the side-table, his tone was one of barely restrained temper. ‘There is nothing about the Parthian aspect!’

  I could have sat quiet but it would have looked ineffectual. So I spoke out: ‘I am sorry, I am not sure who you are. What is your interest?’ He jumped. Was he never challenged?

  At once, Abascantus broke in and apologised. He began to introduce people, though only some of those present. I would never remember them all but it was my only option. In Domitian’s Rome it would be madness to write down the names and positions of key intelligence officers.

  ‘On your right is Tutilius who covers Europe.’ The Europe specialist seemed the most normal, even though when he had first come in he had knocked into furniture and bumped other people clumsily, sloshing over some of the wine he had brought for himself, as if what Abascantus provided wasn’t to his taste. He was open in manner and almost cheery. When introduced, he waved a hand and grinned at me. I wondered what he knew about Britain.

  ‘Our African expert is currently on leave. Amandus, over here, has the Danube frontier.’ Amandus had a thin face as if he was starved, though there was flesh on him; he constantly tapped a stylus against a scroll end and was an unconscious leg-jiggler. ‘And Trebianus, who just asked the question, is our Parthia-watcher. He listens to everything the Parthians are saying, not only to us but to each other. Then he tells us what they really mean.’

  Trebianus looked as if he never ventured out of the palace. Endlessly tall, he had grey skin and a hump back, lolling awkwardly on his stool, with his limbs twisted up.

  I explained quietly: ‘The widow of Sallustius Lucullus has no detectable connection with Parthia. I learned that the Vettuleni do have links to the east. They clearly have many friends, people of influence. I saw nothing to connect them directly to Parthia, which you asked about. I can say, in confidence at this meeting, that nothing would surprise me.’

  Trebianus inclined his head, in apparent shock, as if he was unused to having anyone answer his questions.

  After a moment’s thought, I admitted, ‘There was a suggestion that I should look at Parthia, though of course this was outside my remit. Besides, you are the specialist. I have only the common rumour that the Parthians gave refuge to the False Nero. My personal opinion – if it has value – is that Civica Cerialis ought to have been too astute to consort with a long-time enemy of Rome. Perhaps he was. I suspect there is a lot more general interchange than people think. In the east there must be many who conduct cross-border trade, where the borders they cross take them outside the Empire. We all know how it works. The interplay of favours, hospitality, gifts. Loyalty to Rome taking second place to their own interests.’

  From his initial grumpy air, I was expecting the Parthia-watcher to argue. Instead he seemed curiously receptive. Abascantus mollified the man: ‘Your views exactly, Trebianus!’

  Trebianus ignored him. He asked me, pleasantly enough, ‘What personal experience do you have of the east?’

  ‘Little, though I have visited Greece and Egypt.’ Few women in Rome would be able to say as much. Not many more men. I suspect Trebianus knew the answer before he asked the question, because he then said, ‘Your father’s uncle is a frumentarius in Alexandria.’ He made it a statement, as if he were telling me. Frumentarii are corn factors for the army.

  I managed not to let my jaw drop. Glancing around surreptitiously, I was not the only person there wondering, How in Hades does he know that?

  ‘I met Uncle Fulvius only once.’ I omitted to mention that Mother regularly corresponded with Cassius, his partner, a younger man whom she liked; he ran their household, though his role in my great-uncle’s work had never quite been explained. We were sure Cassius was more than a bedmate. ‘Fulvius is a colourful character.’

  That was putting it mildly. I decided those at this gathering had no need to know he had once run away to join the cult of Cybele, after which no one was sure whether or not he had gone through the castration rite. On our family visit to Alexandria, Father threatened to ask Fulvius to lift up his tunic, but was forbidden by Mother.

  ‘Eccentric?’ asked Abascantus, as if this was all new to him. I bet he had been briefed. Flavia Albia’s uncle is well known to the service, though colourful and awkward to handle …

  ‘Fulvius enjoys presenting himself as a mystery,’ Trebianus answered.

  Trebianus must have met him.

  ‘He is elderly now, overweight and ill.’ For some reason, I felt I should make out that Uncle Fulvius was in retirement – no longer of interest to them. ‘We try to persuade him to come home where he can be looked after, but he enjoys life as an expatriate. I understand he used to negotiate supplies for the military, which I know often means acting for the government in other ways, but I was a young girl when I met him. What he really got up to was never explained.’

  ‘Fulvius is well known to us,’ Trebianus enlightened me. ‘Corn factors see a lot.’

  ‘They “come and go”?’ I wanted to appear wise.

  ‘Come and go,’ agreed Trebianus, his tone to me now perfectly pleasant. ‘Factoring grain. Venturing far and wide. Bearing news.’

  News. So, foreign intelligence was what Fulvius really supplied to the armed forces. And now I was another one working for the spies. I was working for them, while unbeknown to me they had looked deep into my background first. Discussing my family made me uneasy. I was waiting to be asked about Falco, though it never happened.

  There they were, the sweet heart of the intelligence service, most of them looking like oddballs. Slowly I began to see them as more competent, even though one had spilled his water all across the floor and another appeared to be sleeping. Despite appearances, they probably all had judgement and knowledge, even if narrowly focused. They slouched; they avoided eye contact; few of them were capable of relaxed social behaviour, except the urbane Abascantus and, to an extent, Philippus.

  I had gained a good impression of Trebianus, so I said, ‘Somebody must have had dealings with Parthia over the False Nero. Somehow he was extracted from their clutches, though I believe it was extremely difficult to persuade them.’

  All those present stretched and shifted on their stools. Abascantus gave me an expansive smile. ‘I had that task,’ he said demurely, though obviously boasting of his success. ‘All diplomatic correspondence comes through me.’

  ‘Expert negotiation!’ Philippus murmured. I noticed that the Parthia-watcher said nothing. The others, too, were chewing their styli and looking at their knees. Philippus might have felt he was required to say something, but interestingly the rest refused to join in with praise.

  The moment passed, but I noticed.

  ‘Well, thank you, Flavia Albia.’ The Abascantus smile remained unforced and charming. I might trust the oddballs but I would never trust him. ‘We are grateful for your trouble. We here can be too close to a problem sometimes. It is useful to have a wise outsider’s opinion.’

  Before taking the next item, the Secretary may wish to release Flavia Albia from further attendance.

  He was telling me politely that I had to leave.

  16

  Philippus scurried after me. ‘Can you find your way?’

  I nodded. In any case, Katutis was waiting, sitting down on his heels with his back against the outer wall of the spindle tower. Very eastern. Most appropriate.

  ‘What did you think?’ Philippus demanded, in a low voice.

  I wondered what he meant. The discussion in general or a salient aspect? It had seemed pretty bland. Would their conversation have become more incisive after I had left? Had they been disguising electric personalities? Or were they the usual troupe of weary bureaucrats, fighting for their own departments at the expense of everyone else’s, wondering when the refreshments would come, finding excuses, filling their time and their brains with twaddle until they could retire to grace-and-favour villas? There they would reminisce for ever over long-gone incidents, boring to death their only audience, the slaves who wiped away their dribble …

  I shelved it and hedged: ‘I was startled to see Abascantus.’

  ‘There was a time,’ pronounced Philippus, darkly, ‘when freedmen who were sent away to Neapolis understood they were going there in order to sicken fatally.’

  ‘Convenient suicide?’

  ‘In the old days the bastards never came back!’ This was the first time I had heard him so bitter.

  Narcissus, the chief minister for Claudius, was the most notorious: Nero disposed of his predecessor’s richest, most powerful freedman soon after inheriting the throne. Nero came with enough emphatic advisers of his own: know-all Seneca; brutish Burrus; his shy, retiring mother, Agrippina (I jest).

  ‘Losing favour can be a painful disease, Philippus.’

  ‘But not always fatal, we now see.’

  ‘Does the golden one’s reinstatement change anything?’

  ‘No, no! Business as normal …’ He dismissed it. ‘I have to hurry back inside. There are other agenda items I must hear. You and I should talk, we really should. I shall visit you this evening.’

  With a whisper of the double doors, he had gone. I was left pondering what else there could be to discuss. I also noted his new emphatic approach: must, should, shall … Grammar can be telling. Listen to your schoolteachers.

  Katutis unwound himself into an upright position. ‘So Abascantus is recalled. Suspicions were unfounded. No action will be taken against him.’ He appeared to have been squatting outside on the same spot all the time, yet he must have found people to talk to. I had brought my own spy.