Date: 2019-06-21 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Schlock! Publications

The Londinium File

GAVIN CHAPPELL

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2019

Cover art by James Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2019

ISBN: 9781073323586

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

The Hadrian Legacy

Our Man in Alexandria

The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit

The Games of Hadrian: The Archimedes Stratagem

The Kingdom that Rome Forgot

And by the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

Prologue

Old Sarmizegethusa, Dacia, February 125 AD

As the centurion whirled round, the descending sword blade glittered in the sunlight from the cave mouth. He leapt to one side, his foot twisting on the wet rock, and had to seize the wall of the cave to stop himself falling flat.

Two men confronted him, swords in their hands, their faces and bodies in darkness. They must have crept up on him as he was conducting his fruitless search of the cave. But why had they attacked?

He drew his own sword and faced them stolidly.

‘Who sent you?’ he rumbled, his breath turning to steam in the chill subterranean air. ‘What do you want?’

‘Your death!’ hissed one, and came at him with his sword.

The cave echoed with the clang of blade on blade as the centurion lifted his own sword to parry the attack. Now both came at him at the same time, cutting at him from left and right like dogs trying to bring down a bear at bay. Sparks flared in the darkness, illuminating the men’s faces. He could see that they were Romans like himself.

‘Who are you working for?’ he demanded. But they were not likely to answer his questions. He had to get away. There was nothing to see down here, after all. But perhaps the presence of his attackers, who must have followed him all the way from the fort, represented the best clue he had found in a long time. He had to get away and report this latest development to the Chief.

With a wild roar, he charged at them, cloak wrapped round his left hand as shield, short sword flashing back and forth. One blow found its mark, and the centurion felt his blade cut into flesh, and heard a cry from his attacker.

The other dodged the centurion’s attack, then hacked at him as he blundered out through the cave mouth. The centurion felt a white hot blaze of agony from his side, and then he was out in the cold winter sunlight, scrambling precipitately down the rocky slope towards the silver thread of the river as it wound its way through the pines.

Halfway down the snow-mantled slope he looked back, having paused to clean and sheathe his sword. One man stood in the cave mouth, watching his descent, but making no move to follow. The centurion guessed he was torn between pursuit and tending for his wounded comrade. Perhaps they had really only intended to scare him away, not to kill him.

He reached the bottom, and saw two more horses tethered to a tree not far from where he had left his own. All three animals watched him as he staggered up through the snow, neighing questioningly as he drew closer. Even his own mount shied away from him. He put his hand to his side and felt it sticky with blood.

A clatter from behind him alerted him and he swung round to see the two men scrambling down the slope after him. In daylight he saw that both had military haircuts and wore the belts of Roman legionaries. They were after him. They meant to kill him.

Staggering over to the other two horses, he quickly cut their tethers then went to his own, mounted hastily and rode from the clearing as the other two horses galloped away into the trees. As he turned the bend he looked back to see his two attackers running excitedly after their errant steeds.

Now all he needed was to take advantage of the opportunity this afforded him to put enough miles between him and his mysterious attackers and return to civilisation.

Two Roman legionaries had attacked him while he was investigating the cave he had heard about. Why was that? Surely nothing remained of the gold. It was over twenty years since it had been taken—wasn’t it? Except that what he had learnt recently suggested that some of it might have mouldered there rather longer.

And it also seemed that someone with authority in these parts was keeping an eye on the area. He remembered the dossier of information he had sent back to the Chief. He had heard nothing from Rome since.

He rode on, feeling very much alone. His horse’s hoof steps echoed back eerily from the snow hung pines. He knew there was a conspiracy. He had only scratched the surface of it. But surely the Chief himself was not involved!

He reached Apulum after a long ride, and after stabling his horse went immediately to his office in the fort. Here his legionary clerk greeted him.

‘You’ve received a coded message, sir,’ he said, eying the blood crusted bandage on his side. ‘From Rome.’

Scowling, Centurion Junius Italicus tore open the message tablet. After a moment deciphering it, he looked up.

‘I’m being recalled,’ he said in wonder. ‘Extreme urgency, it says. I must inform the legate at once.’

He turned and strode from the office.

Book One: The Dacia Dossier

—1—

Portus Trajanorum, Italy, March 125 AD

The moment Gaius Flaminius Drusus disembarked from his ship, he knew that trouble was brewing.

The bustling port near the Tiber’s mouth was a new town, having replaced Ostia, which remained as a ghost-town only a mile or two away. From Portus Trajanorum it was possible to travel by road or river up to Rome.

The buildings of the port had yet to accumulate that patina of soot and grime that characterised Ostia, a town that was founded, oooh, Flaminius didn’t know when. Long before the days of the Emperor Hadrian, that was for sure. The crowds that thronged the harbour, rolling like rivers of humanity towards the ships or into town, were a heterogeneous assortment of Roman citizens, both civil and military, peregrines, and barbarians from the furthest ends of the empire and beyond. Gauls and Syrians, Greeks and Egyptians, Germans and Parthians, all passed Flaminius by as he hovered indecisively at the foot of the gangplank.

More passengers were attempting to disembark, several Egyptians and a couple of Africans who had been picked up on the voyage from Alexandria; Flaminius realised he was blocking their route. Muttering apologies, he moved out of their way and went to sit on a bollard by the edge of the wharf. Ruefully he looked up at the hot March sun and mopped his brow.

His face had been tanned dark by southern suns. Two crowded years had passed since he had last see Rome and Italy. He remembered that the day of his departure had been dark and murky, autumnal. He had spent so long in Egypt and the lands surrounding it, growing accustomed to the glare of the sun, the heat of the spicy air, the sting of the desert sands, that when the call to return to Rome had reached him he had thought only of the cooler temperatures of his native country. Of course, he had to come ashore on a day like this.

He glanced round for a fountain to wet his mouth. There was one by the wall of that warehouse.

He rose, shouldering his pack which contained the bare minimum of possessions needed on the voyage, and jostled his way to the wall. Picking up the chained metal cup, he dunked it in the bowl, and poured the contents first down his dry throat, then over his face and hair. Blinking, shaking his head to rid it of the remaining drops, he glanced around again. He leant his pack against the wall, then himself, and once more studied his surroundings. There should have been someone waiting for him.

Why had no one come to greet him at the gangplank?

After requisitioning a berth aboard the galley Scylla, where she had been moored in the Great Harbour of Alexandria, he had sent a coded signal to Rome with details of his ship’s scheduled arrival in Italy. Despite delays caused by contrary winds as they neared the Straits of Messina, he had reached Portus as per schedule. And yet nobody had come to meet him.

Flaminius shook his head. Chief Centurion Probus was getting lax in his old age!

And yet the summons had seemed pressing enough. It had to be, for Flaminius to be required back in Rome; his secondment to Egypt had been a hardship posting. Things had gone badly wrong in Britain[1], and Flaminius had embarrassed his chief. Now it seemed all that was forgotten. Or had he somehow misinterpreted the message he’d received?

He had destroyed it on reading it, but before that he had memorised its contents, in accordance with his training. Report yourself to me at your earliest convenience… extreme urgency… Inform your legate that your replacement will be despatched forthwith…

And that, apart from a cursory salutation identifying writer and recipient, had been pretty much that. The imperative tone had been marked. Flaminius had reported his immediate departure to his legate, Avidius Pollio, and taken himself down to the harbour where he had shown to the skipper of the first likely looking Rome-bound vessel his lance-head brooch, insignia of a member of the Commissary, the imperial secret service, blithely commandeering the best berth aboard.

The voyage had been spent in comfort, at the skipper’s expense, as far as was possible. Like most pure blooded Roman citizens, Flaminius was no sailor, and he had remained in his cabin for the first few days of a journey which had taken almost three weeks of sail, via Crete, Greece, and Sicily. The last stretch, north to Rome across the Tyrrhenian Sea, had been a pleasure cruise by comparison, and during the last few days the captain had done his best to ingratiate himself with his imperial guest.

Flaminius had warmed to him, and before disembarking there had been quite a sentimental parting; Flaminius had promised to travel on the Scylla again, next time he had the need to sail between Rome and Egypt. Not that he ever hoped to return to that dark and sinister land. He had much to get away from. If he never saw a certain kohl-eyed Egyptian girl or her brother-husband, it would not break his heart…

Flaminius pushed himself away from the wall and sighed. All these reminiscences were getting him nowhere. He was meant to be meeting with Probus today at the Peregrine Camp on the Caelian Hill. It was getting close to noon. If no one was waiting for him with a fresh horse or a river barge bound upstream, he would have to organise these things for himself. With satisfaction he tapped the brooch pinned to his civilian tunic. Ever since he first joined the Commissary, it had opened plenty of doors for him. He set off into town.

The Commissary’s existence, or rather its true identity, was a secret known to all but a few high ranking senators and imperial officials. The brooch was recognised on all the roads of the empire, but it was identical to that worn by an imperial courier, giving the right to requisition civilian transport, to spend the night gratis in an imperial waystation, plus any number of other privileges. But the Commissary was a whispered rumour to any citizen who had ‘followed the eagles’ in Flaminius senior’s pompous phrase—served in the legions. Not that his father ever had done; he had seen it as a sign of young Gaius’ failure to excel in his legal studies when his son took on the post as a tribune of auxiliary cavalry all those years ago…

Flaminius paused mid step. He had got away from the bustling throngs in the main street and was proceeding down a narrow alleyway towards a spot where he knew horses could be hired—or requisitioned. It had been dead silent apart from the distant murmur of the crowd. But then he heard a stealthy footfall.

He knelt as if to adjust a sandal strap, and took this as an opportunity to peer back down the alley. It was empty. Anonymous doors, their paint flaking in the spring sun, led off into buildings on either side, but otherwise the alley was bare but for the detritus common to Roman thoroughfares: a few fragments of amphora in a drying puddle, broken pieces of wood, a stained strip of pale linen. Nothing to explain the sound. But when Flaminius covertly scanned the doors, his eyes narrowed, as one of them settled into place.

He rose hastily. If someone was following him, well, no doubt they had their reasons. He slid a hand under his tunic to ensure that his hidden short sword was easily to hand, and stalked away.

He preferred the long sword, with which he had become familiar during his early days in the auxiliary cavalry. Even after joining the Commissary, he had habitually used a long sword, often to good effect in his line of work. But returning to Rome in such a hurry, he had decided to take a weapon that he could wear under his tunic, in a hidden sheath. Weapons were forbidden within the sacred precincts of Rome, and no one wished to break the ancient and time honoured laws laid down by Romulus himself—not openly, at least.

Shortly afterwards, the alleyway opened out into another bustling section of town and Flaminius saw the horse coper’s shop that was his destination on the far side of the street. He strode boldly towards it, pausing only to glance over his shoulder. Still he saw no sign of anyone following him. Dismissing his fears—such anxieties went with the job—he entered the horse coper’s and flashed his insignia. Shortly afterwards he had a beast sturdy enough to satisfy him for the ride to Rome.

An hour later, riding up the Port Way, the road that led up the Tiber valley to the very walls of Rome, he was too busy negotiating the traffic, foot, mounted, and wheeled, to consider that he might have anyone on his trail. It was too busy to be sure, anyway. Although the road network which spanned the entire empire from Hadrian’s new Wall in the north of Britain to the desert sands of the oasis of Ammon had been built with the legions in mind, in peaceful Italy, at least, they were used chiefly by civilian traffic.

As he reached a hilly section, his mind was cast back some years; he remembered the attack he had received at the hands of disguised barbarian warriors, who had raided a wages train bound for the Praetorian camp. But no such excitement was to trouble his journey today, and when he finally reached Rome herself, lying resplendent at dusk upon the Seven Hills, he felt only the exhilaration of the returning exile.

He sat his horse by the side of the road, gazing raptly at the distant city, the palaces and the temples, the tenements and the hovels. The huge Flavian Amphitheatre—the so-called Colosseum—seemed to dominate the skyline, the Colossus of Nero that gave it its popular name winking roguishly in the last rays of the setting sun.

Down there was the Circus Maximus, in the valley between the Aventine and the Palatine, where Flaminius had spent much of his days as a student, a young lad really, down from the hills with an allowance to burn. He’d spent plenty of time—and money—at the amphitheatre too, although in more recent years he had learnt to see the gladiator’s life from a fresh perspective.

The Roman Forum was out of sight, hidden from view by the Palatine Hill and the great complex of palaces that stood atop it. From here Flaminius could make out the high arches of the Appian Aqueduct that transported water into the City from the hills to the House of Augustus. The remainder of the palaces were dwarfed by the House of Augustus, but he could see the House of Tiberius too.

There was the Capitoline on the left, that ancient hillfort where the Romans had long ago been besieged by the barbarian Gauls. And there, on the right, if he followed the line of the aqueduct… the slopes of the Caelian Hill, and atop it the fortress known as the Peregrine Camp, central base of the Commissary.

But it was too late to be calling on Probus today: the Chief went to bed early, just as he rose at daybreak. Darkness was falling in the Forum of Rome as Flaminius rode up the Vicus Tuscus, along the narrow valley between the palaces of the Palatine and the temples of the Capitoline. All riding was banned within Rome’s confines during hours of darkness, and as he sawed at the reins to pass round a litter borne by two hulking Gauls, Flaminius realised that he would have to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

If he went up to the Camp, he would be able to find sleeping quarters; even if he met no one he recognised. But he it had been a long voyage, followed by a tiring ride up the Tiber Valley, and right now Flaminius felt a need to unwind, to relax. However urgently his presence was needed, it could wait until morning. After all, whatever it was, it could hardly be all so great a threat to the empire if Probus had forgotten to send someone to meet him.

He would find himself a room for the night in the City, Flaminius told himself, swig a cup or three of wine in a wine shop, and trot up the Caelian to the Peregrine Camp in the morning, when Probus was up and about. Maybe if Flaminius was lucky, he’d find himself sweet company to help rid him of the ache of his tired limbs, his tired heart… Help him to forget Nitocris, Dido. Medea… Drustica.

After receiving unwanted attention from a foot patrol of City Guard, he dismounted and led his horse through the Forum, passing basilicas and temples on his way to less salubrious districts. The twilit air hung heavy with incense and the smoke of the evening sacrifice, which mingled with the profane reek of wood fires and cooking food from the far side of the Forum.

He intended to secure himself a cheap place in the slum district of the Argiletum to stable his horse before he bedded down, maybe with a companion for the night. Not that he couldn’t requisition himself a lodging, but it might seem odd that he wasn’t staying at the Camp… Suddenly, something he had seen stopped him dead in his tracks.

He had just been passing the Temple of Janus, on the north side of the Forum, near the entrance to the Argiletum. It was a small temple, having a door at either end, containing only the statue of the two-faced god, one face looking one way, the other looking in the opposite direction. Flaminius always glanced up as he went past, particularly when off on a journey, as if hoping in some superstitious way for the blessing of a god he did not believe in. But to his shock, the face of Janus did not meet his gaze.

The doors of the Temple were shut.

He stood stock still in the middle of the street, ignoring the curses of passers-by, his horse neighing inquiringly. Avidius Pollio’s words came back to him. The emperor…intending to close the Gates of Peace in the Temple of Janus, marking an end to all hostilities within and without the empire…

‘Come along, citizen; you can’t stand here in the middle of the street all evening.’

Flaminius looked up to see a thickset City Guard centurion watching him wearily.

‘You’re getting in the way of the traffic,’ the centurion added. ‘I ought to have you hauled before the magistrate for causing an obstruction. Get your horse and yourself out of the way!’

Flaminius grinned. He showed the irritable centurion his lance-head brooch. It was against regulations to employ his insignia to get himself off criminal charges, but it impressed the centurion, who doffed his helmet and mopped at his brow.

‘Terribly sorry, sir,’ the man said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t know you was a courier. The civilian clothes, y’see. All the same, you’ll have to be moving along now.’ He glanced up at the Temple. ‘I suppose you were surprised, sir,’ he added. ‘Seeing the Gates of Peace shut like that. I’ve never seen the like in all my days. I suppose you haven’t either. You must have been out of town.’

Flaminius started walking, leading his whinnying horse. The centurion strode alongside him, as if escorting him from the scene. A greying, self-important man, clad in civilian dress, with a bulge under one arm that hinted at a concealed weapon like Flaminius’ own, his manner mellowed a little as they walked.

‘Yes, I was a bit surprised,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘I’ve not been in the City for some years. Occupational hazard, you know how it is… Although I heard rumours.’

‘It was the emperor himself, of course,’ said the centurion importantly. ‘I was there on that day. Great fanfare and processions and then the emperor, who’d been away from the City for a long time himself, marched in and had the doors closed. He gave a speech, too, very well spoke he is, even if he does have a… provincial accent. Said that seeing as there was peace within and without the empire, the Gates of Peace were to be shut henceforth.’ The centurion beamed. ‘Isn’t that good to hear, sir? Peace on earth, and it’s the emperor himself who’s brought it about.’

‘Yes, very good to hear,’ said Flaminius, smiling back. ‘Very good news.’

He took his leave of the centurion, and went in search of a bed for the night.

But something didn’t ring true. Oh, Hadrian had shut the Gates of Peace alright. That was indisputable. But if the empire was at peace, if everything was so tranquil, why had Probus sent Flaminius his message? Immediate recall. Extreme urgency…

As Flaminius, deep in thought, led his horse down the Argiletum, he failed to notice the men who dogged his every step.

—2—

The next morning found Flaminius ascending the street that wound up the Caelian Hill, in a foul mood. A night in the Argiletum had proved a lot less fun than he’d been promising himself. The price of wine in Rome had gone up since last he’d been there, and he could barely afford to get tipsy.

As for finding himself a companion for the night, forget it. The Argiletum had always been an odd mix of the high class and the downright scummy, but the girls had always been friendly, wherever they might come from. Last night he’d got nowhere with several. Was he growing old? It was high time he settled down. But his wasn’t the kind of job that encouraged attachments of that nature. Look what it had done to Medea!

He shied away from that thought, halting in the middle of the quiet street to rub his aching back. As he did, he thought he saw a figure dart back into an alleyway just in the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw no one.

He went to the mouth of the alley: nothing but a cat sniffing suspiciously at some fish bones, who looked up and meowed disapprovingly. Flaminius turned and hurried on his way. He was starting at shadows now! This was where a life of selfless service to the emperor had got him.

He came out on top of the hill and the walls of the Peregrine Camp stood before him, a fortress in the middle of a city, as if ready for attack from hostile street barbarians. It had its name because it was where men from the legions stationed out in the provinces came when they went to Rome. By no means the only military camp in the City or its suburbs, it was a far cry from the Praetorian Camp to the north, but those crenelated walls glowered down at Flaminius as if they meant business. All the same, it was a home from home for him and everyone else in the Commissary, not to mention the imperial couriers.

Flaminius marched up to the front gate and flashed his insignia.

He didn’t recognise either of the two guards, and it became apparent they didn’t recognise him. Both, like the city guard who had accosted him in the Forum, wore civilian dress. Unlike the city guard, both were openly armed, with spears. But Flaminius’ brooch could get him past most obstacles in the City.

‘What’s the password, courier?’ asked the bigger of the two guards, looking down at Flaminius as if he was something nasty that had crawled out from under a flagstone.

‘Vigilance,’ Flaminius hazarded.

The guard laughed humourlessly and shook his head. ‘Bad guess. Get on your way, citizen.’

Flaminius scratched his head. He looked at his brooch, then at the other guard. He appealed to the smaller man.

‘I just showed you my insignia, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘And I’m not a courier, either.’ It was a good hint that he wasn’t the kind to mess with.

The smaller guard shrugged sullenly, and looked to his big friend. The bigger guard lowered his spear and pointed it meaningfully at Flaminius.

‘You gave the wrong password, citizen,’ he drawled. ‘Get moving, and be glad we don’t have you run in for attempting to access imperial property without permission.’

‘No, look here, you don’t understand,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m here to see the Chief. I’ve been out in Egypt for a few years, and I wasn’t informed as to the most recent change of password.’

Another score against Probus! First the Chief demanded Flaminius’ urgent presence in Rome, then he left him cooling his heels in Portus; now it turned out he had changed the password—not surprising considering how long Flaminius had gone—but not thought to notify a returning agent. Was the Chief losing his mind? Was old age creeping up on the big fool?

‘I’ll go in now, alright?’ said Flaminius, stepping between them.

The bigger guard’s hand shot out and seized him by the folds of his tunic. Flaminius fought to break free. The smaller guard levelled his spear and shouted for help. Several more spearmen rushed out and helped the first guard restrain Flaminius.

‘You want to talk to the Chief?’ hissed the smaller guard, breathing onion-reeking fumes in Flaminius’ face. ‘You’ve just bought yourself a ticket to see him.’

The bigger guard nodded to the other men. Flaminius, angry now, snatched free his right hand and tried to draw his sword, but it became tangled up in his tunic. The bigger guard grabbed his wrist.

‘Easy now, citizen,’ he breathed.

Two men grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back. The big guard reached a cold hand inside Flaminius’ tunic and yanked out the half drawn sword, snapping the straps that kept it hung under Flaminius’ arm, bringing the sheath with it.

‘Carrying weapons within the sacred precincts of Rome is an offense,’ said the man behind the desk in the Chief’s office. But he wasn’t the Chief. He wasn’t Probus.

‘And so is masquerading as an imperial agent.’ The man rose to his feet, reached over the desk, and tore the brooch from Flaminius’ tunic before the latter had time to react. He dropped it on the desk and picked up a tablet and stylus. ‘Name?’ the man asked without looking up.

‘Julius Caesar,’ said Flaminius levelly, and the man gave him a cold, disbelieving smile. ‘Your men are armed. Aren’t they within the sacred precincts of Rome too?’

The man stared appraisingly at him for a long while. Unabashed, Flaminius stared right back.

This definitely wasn’t Probus. This Chief was a sallow faced man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a lantern jaw. Except for the latter feature, and the crested helmet that sat on the desk, he had more the look of a high ranking clerk than the head of the imperial secret service. He wore a world weary expression as if it had become a habit, and he was giving Flaminius the full benefit of it.

‘The Peregrine Camp lies just outside the pomerium,’ said this new Chief, referring to the invisible boundary that separated the sacred precincts from the rest of the City. ‘We wouldn’t have built a military camp within it, would we?’ Flaminius knew this: he was just playing for time. ‘But my men saw you coming up from the Forum. So you had that sword’—the short sword lay on the desk—‘when you were within the pomerium. Breaking laws that go back to Romulus himself! You should be ashamed of yourself, citizen.’

‘The Praetorian Guard goes armed within the pomerium,’ said Flaminius acerbically.

‘And now you’re issuing calumnies against the emperor’s own bodyguard,’ said the Chief absently, making a new note on the wax tablet. ‘Not looking good, is it? I should have you prosecuted for this. It’ll make the magistrate’s day.’

‘Look, what’s going on?’ Flaminius was furious. ‘I was sent a message by the Chief saying I was needed urgently in Rome. Now I come here to the Commissary headquarters and it’s all changed. Where’s Probus?’

‘Probus?’ said the Chief Centurion. ‘Never heard of him. Commissary? What in Jove’s name are you talking about? This is the central base of the courier service. We don’t deal in commissary matters. You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re a grain commissioner. Try the Horrea Galbae.’

Something was wrong. Something was very definitely wrong. ‘Chief, you know as well as I do that the Commissary has very little to do with grain shipments these days. And the Horrea Galbae are civilian warehouses, not imperial, so I don’t know why you suggest I should go there. The Commissary is…’ He broke off.

‘Yes?’ asked the Chief. ‘I’d be fascinated to know what the Commissary is if it isn’t concerned with grain.’ He genuinely didn’t seem to know what his visitor was talking about.

Flaminius gave up. ‘I can’t discuss it if you’re not in the know,’ he said. ‘But what about Probus? What happened to him? Ask him: he’ll fill you in.’ He shook his head. ‘Believe me, this is not just the imperial courier’s base.’

The Chief looked affronted. ‘Thank you, citizen! I’ll not have some nobody stroll in off the street to tell me my own affairs,’ he said. ‘I am the Chief. I have been the Chief for some time. I know nothing about any Probus. To my certain knowledge my predecessor was called Otho.’

‘May I sit down?’ Flaminius asked palely.

With a magnanimous gesture, the Chief indicated to a scribe that he should bring forth a stool. Flaminius sat down, head in his hands. At the Chief’s command, the scribe poured him a glass of wine. Flaminius sipped it moodily. After taking a moment to collect himself, he looked up.

‘You must be right, Chief Centurion,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to the wrong place. Thank you for your… hospitality.’ He set the empty glass down on the desk and rose to his feet. ‘My humble apologies for any trouble I may have inadvertently caused you. I’ll be going now.’

‘Farewell,’ said the Chief, but when Flaminius reached for his brooch he laid a hand on it.

‘Wait a minute!’ said the big guard, who had been standing in silence in the doorway. ‘This character barges in here waving an illegal weapon and posing as an imperial courier…! And we’re letting him go?’

The Chief’s face flushed an imperial purple. ‘Enough!’ he barked. ‘You’re on a charge, soldier! Take him away.’

Some of the other guards led the bigger one from the office while two more remained behind to provide an escort for Flaminius. Weaponless, stripped of the insignia that marked him as an imperial agent, he allowed himself to be marched out of the fortress building, across the small parade ground, past the temple of Jupiter, and out into the street where they left him.

For a long time he stood there on the pavement, looking back at the camp incredulously. At last, shaking his head, he turned and walked away down the hill.

A few minutes later he had reached the Colosseum. There was no show today, and besides, he’d lost all interest in gladiatorial display in recent years. He walked dispiritedly past the massive structure. Whores cooed invitingly from the lower arches, offering their sultry wares, but for once in a way they held no interest for him.

Rounding the corner he saw the Colossus of Nero towering over everything. The titanic statue showed the former emperor naked but for the sun god’s crown on his head, holding a rudder in one hand over a representation of the globe of the world to show his dominion over the universe. And now his successor, Hadrian, had declared peace on earth. The dream of all emperors had come true. Peace within and without the empire.

But there was no comparable peace within Flaminius’ breast as he walked aimlessly in the direction of the Forum. The Palatine Hill reared on one side, the palaces of the emperors gazing down smugly at the teeming crowds below, the massive abutments of the House of Tiberius towering over everything. In the distance he could see Trajan’s Column, another memorial of Roman triumph.

The Forum was very busy, but Flaminius himself was at a loose end. It seemed he was out of a job. Homeless, too, if they wouldn’t provide him with a bunk at the Peregrine Camp. He jingled his money belt surreptitiously, then slunk into a shaded corner by the Basilica Julia to count his ready cash. Enough to get him another night’s rest at the Argiletum’s exorbitant prices, no more. Maybe he could find a cheaper fleapit in the Subura. He could certainly do with a drink.

He drifted aimlessly across the Forum, thinking about going home. Back to his father’s villa up in the hills. It was so long since he’d gone back there. He’d written frequently to the family when he began his service with the Eagles, even returned a few times when on leave, for Saturnalia at least. But since joining the Commissary, his letters had been fewer and fewer, and his visits had soon ended. It was hard to square the work he did with family life, just as he could see no future in settling down with a nice girl, even a camp follower. But it was over now.

He pictured his father’s disappointed face when he turned up with a tale of an aborted career. Something he could barely speak about. His father was a Roman of the oldest of old schools, who liked to believe his obscure equestrian family was descended from the consul Gaius Flaminius who had fought against Hannibal, and he had no time for the legions of today.

‘My advice to you, son,’ his father had droned the last time they’d met, ‘is get out of the military as soon as you can and get into farming. Look around here. Not a big place, and it’s a long way from Rome or anywhere else. But we support ourselves and our slaves, and still have a surplus to trade at market.’

The pastoral idyll had not appealed to Flaminius. It still didn’t. But what else did he have?

He dodged out of the way of a rose-pink litter borne at speed by two burly Celts. A waft of perfume—rhodinum[2], if Flaminius’ expert nose was right—billowed from an open curtain. He caught a glimpse of a voluptuous woman wearing heavy makeup, her arm raised. Then something clattered on the ground beside him, the curtain fell back into place, and the litter vanished into the unfathomable depths of the Forum crowd.

Curious, Flaminius knelt down to pick up whatever she had dropped. It was a rectangle of pottery. On it was scratched an inscription: Circ. Max. Seat XXXXVIII: Row VIII. And today’s date.

It was a ticket for the Circus Maximus.

—3—

‘So, do you come here often?’ said Flaminius. ‘As the, er, vestal virgin said to the pontifex maximus.’

His grizzled neighbour’s dour reply went unheard. A roar rose from the circus crowd as this new man Diocles screeched round the bend, his four horse chariot—representing the Whites—in the lead for the final lap.

On reading the inscription on the ticket, Flaminius had looked around in puzzlement, but the rose pink litter had vanished from the Forum, leaving only a heady suggestion of Babylonian gardens in its wake. He had glanced back down at the inscription. The games would soon be starting. With this ticket, he would be able to get himself a shaded seat, hobnobbing with the rich, not loafing down in the free seats favoured by the plebeians. Given the diminishing nature of his ready money, and his recent unexpected redundancy, this would be an undoubted boon.

And why not? What else did he have to do, in the name of Pluto? So Flaminius went to the Circus.

After some searching he found his place. Already the seats of the great stadium were packed. He wasn’t sure what festival was being celebrated that day, there were so many, after all, but he doubted that anyone else was concentrating on the religious significance of it all as they gazed down from the rows of stone seats that flanked the race track. Trajan of Blessed Memory rebuilt the circus in stone when Flaminius was but a babe in arms, and he could barely picture the rickety structure that his father had complained of. The stone was weathered in places, but it was almost as old as Flaminius, so he could hardly complain.

He sat down next to a greybeard, who also seemed to have come to the Circus by himself. On all sides sat chattering groups of families from the equestrian and senatorial ranks. It was the equestrian class to which Flaminius belonged, although he had seen much of the seamier side in recent years. He lounged back against the warm stone and eyed the empty track, wishing he’d bought a cushion on the way up. Absently he glanced at the greybeard, wondering if he could con him into wagering a little money on the contestants.

There was a fanfare from the far end, where stood the starting gates—and there were the chariots! little more than dots from so far away down the dusty track, glittering in the sun; each of them four horse chariots, one White, one Green, one Blue, and one Red.

‘I’ll give you two sesterces on the Greens, old man,’ he said languorously to his neighbour.

‘I shouldn’t think you were good for the money,’ said a familiar voice. ‘You got in here with a free ticket, tribune.’

Flaminius’ scalp hairs rose. His head turned as if by its own volition and he stared, mouth gaping, at the greybeard. He saw an elderly man clad in a dalmatic of dark green, a wreath perched grimly on his head, a basket of figs on his lap, from which he was eating stolidly. The greybeard lifted a cup of wine and silently toasted Flaminius with it. Flaminius noticed a signet ring on one finger and recognised it. Their eyes met.

‘Probus?’ Flaminius whispered.

‘The same,’ replied the erstwhile Chief of the Commissary.

The stadium echoed to the thunder of hoofs and the rumbling of chariot wheels, and the hubbub of chatter swelled into a booming roar like a mighty ocean of sound. In a storm of dust the chariots screeched around the central dividing barrier, the White team at the rear, the Red in the lead. As they shot back up the track in the direction of the starting gates, Flaminius continued to gape at Probus.

‘Don’t stare so,’ the Chief growled during a lull in the noise. ‘We don’t want to draw attention.’

By the time the charioteers had reached their third and final lap, Flaminius had regained control over his mind, and his tongue,—enough to crack a nervous joke. The roar of the crowd was so loud the reply went unheard.

‘Your witticisms are wearing thin, tribune,’ Probus added when it grew quieter again. ‘Surely you have an inkling of the threat that faces us. This is no time to act the fool!’

‘You know, Chief,’ said Flaminius, helping himself to a fig, ‘while I was away in Egypt I met a lot of Greek scholars in Alexandria. They reminded me of you strangely.’

Probus nodded. ‘The ineffable aura of age-old wisdom?’

‘Well,’ said Flaminius doubtfully, ‘that and the smugness. Though few of them took kindly to licentious sports.’

Probus grunted. ‘I didn’t arrange for this meeting because I’m addicted to chariot racing…’

‘No, I daresay,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Not your scene, is it, Chief? But I was forgetting—you’re not Chief any more, are you? I popped up to the Peregrine Camp, and they said they’d never heard of you. Nor the Commissary either. I thought I must be losing my mind. And now you turn up here, in the Circus Maximus of all places.’

‘I know you went up there,’ said Probus impatiently. ‘I’ve had a tail on you ever since you came ashore.’

As the crowd yelled out in admiration for the Iberian who had achieved such an unexpected victory, Flaminius digested this, and the fig too.

‘Why didn’t you try to make contact?’ he asked as things grew quieter. ‘I didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening.’ He considered that statement. ‘I still don’t! What are we doing at the Circus?’ A thought struck him. ‘It was one of your agents who threw me that ticket.’

‘We needed to meet somewhere where we would be lost in the crowd,’ said Probus, ‘where we would not be overheard, or seen, preferably. You’re right, tribune; I am no longer in command of the Commissary.’

Flaminius surveyed him. ‘There’s more grey in your beard than last time we met,’ he said, ‘but you’re not old enough for retirement.’

‘The beard is artificially whitened,’ Probus explained, ‘as a disguise. It fooled you. Perhaps it has fooled our enemies, although they have been following me, much as my men have been following you. I only hope they haven’t been unduly assiduous in keeping surveillance on you, too, since you left the Peregrine Camp. None of my people have reported anything…’ He paused.

‘I was forced out,’ he went on. ‘I still don’t know why, or who was at the back of it. But I have my suspicions.’

The next race was starting. Flaminius raised his voice. ‘When did all this happen? I’d just got back from the Libyan Desert when I received your signal: return to Rome at once, it said, urgent[3]. By the time I get here, not only you have vanished but so has the entire Commissary.’

Probus shook his head. ‘The Commissary remains, but it is under new management. And it remains a state secret to all but the emperor and his agents.’

‘But I’m an imperial agent myself,’ Flaminius protested. ‘Just because I was out in the provinces is no reason to keep me uninformed.’

Probus shook his head. ‘You’re from the old days,’ he said. ‘That puts you under suspicion. For now, it seems, the policy is to deny everything. If we’re good and don’t cause trouble, maybe we’ll be allowed to live. Maybe. But if we set a foot wrong, we’re dead.’

The roar of the mob intensified.

‘But who has taken over?’ Flaminius asked in another lull. ‘I met the man who calls himself Chief. He denied that you ever held the post, mentioned someone I’ve never heard of called Otho. Who is this new man? And how did he get there?’

Probus looked dark. ‘I know very little. Luckily I’ve managed to retain some of my agents—not those on the official payroll. Civilians, for the most part. But I have no access to the signals corps, so I am no longer in contact with the Commissary centurions stationed with the legions. I should imagine they will be gradually recalled and dealt with, weeded out on the strength of their loyalty to me. All I know is that I was at my desk one morning, not long after the emperor had returned from the provinces, having received a substantial report from the commissary centurion attached to the Thirteenth Legion in Dacia[4], when my presence was requested in the palace.

‘I went there at once, only to be kept waiting in an antechamber for the best part of the day. Finally, I was shown through to an office where a Greek youth, a pretty boy the emperor had picked up on his travels, informed me that my services were no longer required. My few personal possessions, which I had left in the Camp, had been forwarded to the Palace during my absence, and they were presented to me by slaves. I demanded to see this beardless boy’s superior but he refused, and called in some Praetorians who confiscated my sword and escorted me to the gates. Whoever choreographed this little coup, they were very efficient.

‘Since then I have been living off what money I had deposited with a man in the Forum, and lodging in a house in the Argiletum. The civilian agents have been working for me, which has eaten into my subsistence…’

‘Why don’t you just give up?’ Flaminius asked harshly. ‘You’ve been sacked. It happens! Move on. Find something else to do. You’re just wasting your money.’ He held up a hand. ‘I understand it must have been a blow. It could have been more tactfully done. But…’

‘Must I ask you for a second time not to play the fool?’ Probus hissed. ‘It was a plot. Someone with influence over the emperor decided that I was a threat and had me dismissed, removed from a position where I was threatening them. It was cleverly done. No drama, no assassination. Nothing that would draw attention or suspicion. Just a word in the emperor’s ear, and I was ousted.’

‘But why?’ Flaminius laughed. ‘Who did you threaten?’ He sobered a little. ‘There could be any number of men, powerful senators for the most part, whose toes you’ve trodden on. But the emperor would never listen to them. He trusts the Commissary, not the Senate. After all, we’re on his side!’

‘It must all be connected with the report from our man in Dacia,’ said Probus. ‘He was carrying out an investigation into the disappearance of certain extraordinary funds... What do you remember of the Dacian Wars?’

‘Nothing,’ said Flaminius, ‘but I’ve seen Trajan’s Column. I don’t actually remember anything. I was about six or seven when the wars ended. From the reliefs, they got very nasty. Didn’t the king of the Dacians commit suicide?’

Probus nodded. Another race was starting, and they watched the chariots for a while in silence.

‘Decebalus was the name of that barbarian king,’ Probus said. ‘As ruler of Dacia he fought a series of savage wars with Rome, first in Domitian’s days, then in Trajan’s. He wreaked a lot of havoc; he was powerful and rich. I fought in that war, as a young legionary. Rome won in the end, we surrounded his stronghold, and when he saw there was no escape he fled, cut his throat when it looked like he would be taken prisoner. A sore loser, everyone said so. We took his severed head and hand back to Rome as trophies and they were flung down the Gemonian Steps to the mob. A triumph for civilisation, but there was little else for Rome to show: when they stormed the stronghold, Decebalus’ famous treasure was gone.

‘But earlier on, one of his nobles had been taken prisoner and he was pressed into telling us that much of the royal treasure had been buried in a river bed by Roman slaves who were murdered straight after. The late Decebalus had been the only man alive to know its exact location. The rest of the treasure was concealed in nearby caves. Legionaries were despatched to bring back the gold, and they returned with some—costly trinkets of strange, barbaric workmanship—but much of it seems to have vanished before they got there. That was the official story. But what my agent maintained—you remember Junius Italicus?’

Flaminius nodded impatiently. He knew the centurion of old. He had been with him in the old days, in Italy and in Britain.

‘What he maintained is that the treasure was found, but it went missing shortly after—with some help. I recalled him at the same time I recalled you, asking him to meet me at a secret location known to us both. It seems he has yet to reach Rome, assuming the message was not intercepted… Before I could fully familiarise myself with the contents of his report, I was called to the palace.’

The last race ended in confusion as Diocles won yet again. Angry roars came from a crowd that had been wagering on more famous charioteers. Amidst the din, Flaminius was staring at Probus.

‘Do you think that whoever had you dismissed had some connection with the disappearance of this gold?’

Probus nodded. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’

Flaminius helped himself to another fig and chewed on it thoughtfully. ‘If only you had read that report in full…’ he murmured. ‘But I suppose it’s vanished by now.’

‘So you might think,’ said Probus. ‘But according to one of my civilian agents at the Tabularium[5], the files from my time have all been taken for safekeeping…’ He raised his eyes and at first Flaminius thought he was regarding the heavens, but following his look he saw that he was gazing at the Palatine Hill, whose temples and palaces were visible over the wall of the Circus. ‘…to a secret archive, staffed by slaves, beneath the palace library.’

Flaminius remembered his brief stint in the Praetorian Guard. ‘The temple of Apollo?’ He had questioned the imperial secretary Suetonius in the library attached to that temple.

Probus shook his head. ‘There is another library on the Palatine Hill, less well known, located in the House of Tiberius. The archive lies beneath it, near where the sewers of the Palatine reach the Cloaca Maxima.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a very healthy place,’ said Flaminius, with a sinking feeling.

‘No matter, you shouldn’t be there for very long,’ said Probus.

‘Now just a minute!’ Flaminius protested.

‘I can hardly infiltrate the place,’ Probus explained patiently. ‘I’m under surveillance. You’ve only been here a day, and they must think that you’re too demoralised to take any action. You can gain entry into the library in the guise of a slave, then penetrate the secret archive and remove the Dacia dossier. You’ll find it under a code relating to the year of the City and the province: DAC: AVC: DCCCLXXVIII: CAL. IAN. When you have it, go to the House of the Satyr in the Argiletum and give the code word Burebista, and they’ll arrange a meeting between us. Got that? Burebista. When you leave the Circus, look for a rose pink litter, and tell the slaves who bear it that you want to speak to Rhoda. She will help you.’ He rose to his feet.

‘What are you talking about?’ Flaminius said wildly, looking up at the Palatine. From here, the House of Tiberius was out of sight. How did Probus expect him to get in there? As a slave? A slave couldn’t simply walk into the palace and start snooping around.

He looked back. The races had ended. People were rising to their feet and moving off towards the exits. In the confusion, Probus had somehow vanished.

Seeing a man watching him from the seats nearby, Flaminius turned and walked into the crowd. Reaching the steps he went down them two at a time, taking the opportunity to look back.

The man was still following.

—4—

On leaving the Circus Maximus, Flaminius scanned the ranks of litters outside. His eye fell upon a familiar rose pink litter beside which stood two Gauls. He hurried up to them.

‘I want to speak to Rhoda,’ he said.

Silently, a Gaul held open the curtain and ushered him into the sweet smelling gloom inside.

‘Sit down, please,’ came an equally sweet voice; sweet, sultry, and foreign; Greek, maybe, but Asian Greek, not from the mainland or Alexandria. Flaminius squatted down amid scented cushions to find himself face to face with a veiled woman clad in a rose pink stola. From her came a strong waft of scent; rhodinum for certain. A definite theme was emerging here.

‘You’re Rhoda, right?’ Flaminius broke off as the litter lurched beneath him and they began moving. ‘Where are we going?’

A pair of feline eyes watched him intently from above the veil. ‘Handsome young buck, aren’t you?’ the woman murmured. Despite himself, Flaminius was strangely stirred by her words; they seemed to drizzle upon his sinews like gritty honey. ‘Yes, you can call me Rhoda. As for where we’re going, well, you’ll see. But before we get there, you must change into this.’ From a small coffer she produced a threadbare tunic of undyed linen.

To Flaminius’ eye she resembled a high class whore. Probably called herself a courtesan. Spent her time shuttling back and forth from the bedchambers of the great and the good. Service entrance only, if that shouldn’t be taken as a double entendre... A thought struck him. She wasn’t Probus’ camp follower, was she? How could he afford her? Bribes from rich senators? It seemed unlikely. And yet she was an unlikely agent, even for a civilian.

‘You want me to change into those rags?’

‘Come along, hurry up,’ she said briskly. ‘Nothing I’ve not seen a thousand times before.’

Flaminius looked about the cramped, lurching, curtained space. ‘There’s not a lot of room for changing,’ he objected. ‘Can’t we stop somewhere, even if I really have to do this? Why do I have to change into this tunic, anyway?’

‘Look, handsome,’ she said wearily, ‘if the Chief says you’ve got to change into slave’s clothes, you’ve got to change. But don’t worry,’ she added, her voice turning seductive again, ‘I’ve got something a deal more upscale for you to wear over it.’

Grimacing, Flaminius slipped out of his own clothes, wishing she’d had the decency to look away, and hurriedly shrugged on the slave tunic. He was used to stripping off in the presence of strange men down at the bathhouse, there was nothing odd about that, but the only women who had seen him naked had been equally nude themselves. It wasn’t an easy operation, sitting down inside the litter, but he managed it somehow, cursing Probus under his breath as he did.

The sight of his bare torso drew an admiring flash of Rhoda’s eyes.

‘Been in the wars, haven’t you, sweetheart?’ she said. ‘And what in Aphrodite’s name was that tattoo in aid of? It really doesn’t suit you.’

He’d picked up a few scars in the service of Rome, not all of them after joining the Commissary. The tattoo was a memento of his time with the rebels in Britain.

‘Undercover, of course,’ he added, as he wriggled into the tunic, hiding everything from her eager eyes.

‘Have you ever been undercover in the Praetorians?’ she asked, producing the woollen folds of a narrow stripe toga, followed by a pair of sandals.

‘Once or twice.’ He didn’t like to brag.

‘Why, you have got around, haven’t you?’ she said teasingly. ‘For such a young pup.’

‘I’m twenty five,’ he said aggressively as he attempted to fold the toga around himself in the awkward space. He wanted to ask her how old she was to consider him a young pup, but restrained himself. ‘Why am I wearing a citizen’s toga over a slave’s tunic?’ And why am I not changing in more comfortable surroundings?

‘You’re a big boy now, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You can’t expect to gain access to the palace as a nameless slave. You will enter the House of Tiberius as a Praetorian of equestrian rank. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you. When challenged at the gates, give the password of the day: Ganymede. Then find a quiet spot, secluded. A storeroom, maybe. Take off the toga and stow it somewhere where it won’t easily be found, so you can reclaim it on your departure. Then go down to the library and tell them you’ve been sent from elsewhere. You know the territory: the Chief expects you to cook up your own cover story. We just get you inside. You’re the one who has to get into the archive and find that dossier.’

The litter stopped moving suddenly—the bearers had been carrying them along at a fair old lick—and Flaminius felt a lurch as they lowered it with a clatter to what sounded like paving stones. He could hear people talking, people walking, the tramp of marching feet. He stared wildly at Rhoda.

Smiling she stretched out a slender arm that jingled with bangles and twitched open the curtain. Outside was the Forum. The eastern portico of the Julian Basilica towered over them. People were passing nearby, although they were partly out of sight behind a pillar. There was no sign of the nondescript man who had been tailing Flaminius in the Circus Maximus: Rhoda’s Gauls must have left him far behind. He thanked Rhoda, and jumped out.

Without giving the two Gauls a second glance he marched off. The street between the Julian Basilica and the Temple of Castor and Pollux led almost due south round the side of the Palatine Hill. They were round the far side from the Circus Maximus now. The litter bearers must have taken them up the way he had come. To the left a street led along the bottom of the hill, and he followed it, taking a right turn and following a path cut out of the rock that wound back on itself before leading up to the House of Tiberius. He marched purposefully.

His toga identified him as a Roman citizen of the middle classes, which of course he was. But his military bearing and cast of features suggested a Praetorian, in civilian garb as was customary within the sacred precincts of Rome. One thing was lacking, the obligatory sword concealed under the folds of his toga. But this disguise wouldn’t last longer than it took to infiltrate the palace. And a slave would not carry a sword, that much was certain.

Two men in togas, their hair cropped in a military style, barred his way as he mounted the steps. Behind them stood the gates that would take him inside this section of the imperial palace. The gates were open, and within was a marble walled antechamber that looked gloomy after the afternoon sunlight.

‘The password, sir?’ one Praetorian asked respectfully. Both men’s hands hovered around the folds of their togas, ready to draw steel at the slightest provocation.

‘Ganymede,’ said Flaminius nonchalantly, without breaking step, and the two Praetorians drew back to let him enter.

‘Pass, friend,’ said the other.

The password was changed daily at the imperial palace, and the tribune responsible was only supposed to reveal it to those in the know. How Rhoda—or rather, Probus—had got a hold of it was something Flaminius would prefer not to know. If such a security breach had ever occurred on his watch, he’d have had the man responsible flogged. But it wasn’t his problem.

Beyond the antechamber, passageways and peristyle gardens led deeper into the palace complex. Flaminius marched through the echoing corridors, keeping an eye out for somewhere he could change. In the end he ducked behind an abandoned gardener’s hut in one corner of a garden and hastily unwound his toga, then thrust it behind a statue of the Three Graces. Stepping out in the dowdy dress of a slave, he began his search for the library.

As he went, he formulated his cover story.

‘S-sir?’ He addressed the librarian who sat at the desk in the middle of the pillared room, his voice quavering with simulated nerves. ‘I’ve been sent from the Tabularium. They want me to check the grain requisition orders for the last quarter.’

The librarian looked up from a catalogue he was annotating. He wore the soft felt cap of an imperial freedman, and his smooth olive face had all the sourness and hauteur Flaminius associated with such gentry.

‘Grain requisition?’ he asked as if his visitor was mad. ‘That dolt Marcus Fulvarius should have sent you to the Commissary archive.’

Flaminius licked dry lips. ‘Master said that the Commissary archive has been moved to the House of Tiberius.’ He looked about himself uncertainly. ‘Have I come to the wrong place?’

The librarian huffed. ‘By no means have you come to the wrong place, slave, but I’ve no notion of where you would find what you’re looking for. No one has told me about any Commissary archive being moved here. How am I supposed to implement an effective records management policy if the library is constantly used as a dumping ground for documents beyond my remit?

‘Here is the catalogue,’ he added, gesturing at the long papyrus scroll stretched out on the desk before him; ‘here are the stacks. You won’t find any Commissary information entered in the catalogue; you may perhaps find what you’re looking for in the stacks, but I couldn’t direct you.’

Grumbling to himself, he hobbled away.

Flaminius looked around the chamber. It was not half as grandiose as the famous Library of Alexandria that he had come to know so well during his time in Egypt, but it was still a sizeable space, comparable with a medium sized temple. A domed roof arched overhead, a skylight filtering in daylight to complement the lanterns that hung from chains anchored in the ceiling. Niches in the marble walls contained statues of Apollo, Mnemosyne, and the Nine Muses.

Between each statue ran a long stack filled with shelves containing pigeon hole repositories for scrolls. A fusty silence hung over everything, although in the distance he could see other slaves quietly at work: searching the stacks for documents, scanning other documents, carrying baskets of documents back to the stacks. The stale smell of dust hung over everything, but also, from somewhere nearby another smell drifted, less pleasant. It reminded Flaminius of a badly maintained drain.

He discounted the catalogue, and began to trail aimlessly up and down the rows. Choosing a scroll at random, he unrolled it enough to read the first few lines, and raised his eyebrows. While still emperor, Tiberius had gained himself quite a reputation, but really, that was going a bit far…! Intrigued, Flaminius read on. No! No, surely that wasn’t anatomically possible… He wondered if there was a copy of Hippocrates he could consult.

He recollected himself, hastily rolled up the scroll, and inserted it in the relevant pigeon hole, feeling oddly grubby. This was clearly the literature section, and the scroll he had chosen at random offered a new interpretation of the notion of ‘erotic verse.’ Despite an enduring fondness for the literary oeuvre of Petronius Arbiter, he had no time for that kind of reading right now.

Without a catalogue, this would take a long time. Perhaps it would be simpler to use the catalogue to determine where he should avoid. He trailed back to the main desk, now deserted. The imperial freedman was deep in conversation with a strikingly handsome youth; a Greek god to the life. Flaminius was tempted to look back to make sure Apollo hadn’t stepped down from his plinth. But no, this lad was too young to be Apollo. Adonis, perhaps, was nearer the mark.

A set of keys lay abandoned on the desk and Flaminius slipped them inside his tunic, more out of the principle that they might prove useful than anything more concrete. Pursing his lips, he studied the catalogue again, looking up from time to time in an attempt to correlate it with the library shelves, occasionally taking a few quick trips to investigate them.

They were numbered. These numbers related to numbers in the catalogue. Shelf numbers! That represented something of a breakthrough. His librarian friend Ozymandias had once defined a system to him as ‘something that only makes sense to the man who made it,’ and that was certainly the case here. It seemed to have been added to, expanded, and further complicated by generations of librarians and archivists since the days of Tiberius of Blessed Memory. But the numbers didn’t help Flaminius find what he was looking for. There was no correspondence with the code Probus had quoted. This was hopeless.

Cold sweat broke out on his skin. If he was caught, if anyone suspected that he had no authority to be here, his life wouldn’t be worth a dribble of lantern oil. He had to leave the palace while Ganymede was still current; he had no hope of learning the next day’s password in the guise of a slave. He didn’t have time to waste. And yet here he was, wasting his time with this Jove cursed catalogue. He had it worked out now; it covered everything in this library, comprehensively if by no means coherently. But where was the Commissary archive? Where was Junius Italicus’ report?

It struck him like one of Jove’s lightning bolts. He was tempted to slap his brow in amazement.

He wasn’t looking for a book or document amongst these shelves. The object of his search wouldn’t be in the library catalogue—of course, he’d known that all along. It was a secret archive. And it was under the library, not in it.

He sniffed. That rank, lingering smell. Probus had said that the secret archive was near the main palace drain, which joined the Cloaca Maxima, Rome’s Great Sewer that led south from the Forum to empty into the Tiber. It was a definite clue. Theseus had had nothing so definite to go on when he threaded his way through the Cretan Labyrinth.

Flaminius followed his nose.

It led him across the library to the north wall, where a long window let in the last of the daylight and provided a view of the Forum. Directly below stood the House of the Vestals. Flaminius glimpsed a couple of dignified robed figures trotting primly across a torch-lit garden, and grinned to himself. Had Tiberius stood here, ogling the virgin keepers of the flame? Maybe not. The old goat had preferred plump buttocked youths, by all the lurid accounts.

To the left of the window, between two stacks, a flight of steps led downwards. They must have been cut into the bedrock of the Palatine Hill. Flaminius was getting somewhere. He glanced around hastily. No one seemed to be in the vicinity. He padded down the steps.

The incongruous odour of sewage was getting stronger. He reached an ironbound door. It was cold, and drops of moisture had collected on its surface. He found a keyhole, and took out the keys he had found on the desk. The third one slid sweetly into the keyhole. Flaminius turned it, feeling the tumblers move.

The door rumbled, and he felt a blast of chill air. In the light that fell from the nearby window, he saw another door on the far side. But between him and the second door gaped a chasm, too wide and deep to leap over. From below echoed the rushing of water, and a stink of sewage. He realised it wasn’t a door on the far side, it was a small drawbridge like the kind used in siege towers and for storming enemy ships at sea. It would fall across the gap, bridging it, and he could cross over into the secret archive. But where was the lever to operate the mechanism? He searched the wall beside him.

‘What in Minerva’s name are you doing down there?’

Flaminius spun round.

—5—

‘Well?’

It was the sour faced librarian. He stood at the top of the steps, a dark silhouette against the light from the window, arms folded in peevish disapproval.

‘You can’t go in there!’ he added, clattering down the steps. Snatching the keys from Flaminius’ hand, he slammed the door and locked it. ‘Where did you find these?’ He shook them in his face. He was substantially shorter than Flaminius, but his belligerent air of absolute authority left the imperial agent feeling oddly ashamed, as if he truly was a slave gone wrong.

‘I-I took them from your desk,’ Flaminius stammered, not meeting the librarian’s eyes.

‘Did you indeed, by Isis!’ said the librarian. Huffing, he turned round and tramped back up the steps, pausing only once to beckon this unruly slave with a curt gesture. Unwillingly, Flaminius followed.

At the top, the librarian halted to clip the keys to his belt. He glared at Flaminius. ‘That vault is not even accessible to me!’ he said, as if this fact might be unthinkable. ‘Only the emperor’s most trusted men are allowed to go in. I’m not even permitted to know what is stored in there, and I’m a freedman. No mere slave has the right to enter…’ He broke off, and a look of fleeting comprehension flitted across his face. ‘Did you think that was where you would find your… grain requisition reports, or whatever it was that you were sent for?’ His expression softened a little.

Playing up to him, Flaminius hung his head and scraped at the marble floor with one sandaled foot. Nodding sullenly he muttered something indistinct.

‘You won’t find them in there,’ said the librarian pityingly. ‘That is a top secret archive. Wherever your documents might be, they won’t be in there.’ He indicated the locked door with an emphatic jerk of the head. ‘Security matters, I understand, from all the secrecy. You’ll have to look elsewhere…’ He broke off again. Flaminius heard the pad of footsteps.

‘What’s all this commotion about?’ oozed a soft, youthful voice. The voice of a boy. But there was something in its tone that hinted at knowledge beyond a mere boy’s age.

‘My apologies if I have disturbed your studies, sir,’ said the librarian oleaginously. ‘I realise now that I was… raising my voice. You must understand that I was disciplining this slave, who has been attempting to access the secret archive.’

‘Oh, is that so?’

The owner of the voice hove into sight, and Flaminius recognised him as the young Greek god he had seen talking with the librarian earlier. In his arms the youth carried a bundle of scrolls, as if with Herculean effort. His eyes, a deep emerald green, glided from the librarian to Flaminius, appraising the latter, impersonally taking him in from top to toe. ‘This slave?’ he added. For all his Grecian good looks he was little more than a boy.

Nervously, the librarian fluttered his hands around. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said. ‘Not one of my own staff, sir, I assure you! He was sent by the Tabularium, I understand.’

The youth looked Flaminius up and down again. He reached out and felt Flaminius’ biceps as if he was an ox in the market. ‘What muscles he’s got!’ he commented, admiringly. ‘Statuesque! Working for the Tabularium, you say? He’d be better off as a sculptor’s model. Or driving a chariot. Or even fighting in the arena! He’s destined for better things than working in public records. What’s your name, boy?’

Flaminius choked back a laugh. That this still-wet-between-the-ears lad should call him, a grown man, boy!

‘Ganymede,’ he replied, speaking at random. It was the first name that sprang to mind—it was the password, of course—but Flaminius instantly regretted it.

‘Ganymede, eh?’ the youth purred silkily, stepping closer, brushing Flaminius’ thigh with his own. ‘We’re two of a kind, then, you and I. I’ve got a little job for you, Ganymede. Carry these scrolls with me to my private apartments.’

Thrusting them into Flaminius’ arms, he turned and walked across the library with a cat-like grace in every step. Flaminius stared after him in confusion, the scrolls piled in his arms. The librarian turned, eyes urgent.

‘Go!’ He flapped his hands. ‘Do as he says! That’s Antinous, the emperor’s protégé! But you would be well advised to call him… master.’

Antinous was waiting impatiently outside.

‘Hurry up, Ganymede,’ he snapped, as Flaminius appeared, struggling to keep control of the higgledy-piggledy pile of scrolls. ‘I’m not used to being kept waiting by a slave.’

They trotted through a labyrinth of passages and gardens, heading in the direction of that part of the palace complex that Flaminius knew best, the House of Augustus.

‘I am learning about Plato,’ Antinous confided in Flaminius as they walked. ‘He wants me to learn all about those ancient Greeks.’ Flaminius realised that ‘he’ referred to the emperor Hadrian himself. ‘My pedagogue has given me a syllabus that, with his help, will transform me into the ideal man, he says. Well, I wasn’t very well educated back in Bithynia, don’t you know. But now he wants me to be as clever as he is. And he’s awfully clever, you know.’

Antinous looked at Flaminius. ‘But a lot of it is very boring,’ he whined. ‘I much prefer hunting. And there’s no hunting here in Rome, except if you want to watch the venators in the arena. Tell me, you’ve not always been a public records slave, have you, boy?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No, master,’ he said. ‘This is a new job to me. I’ve got to access the grain requisition orders for the last quarter. They’re very difficult to find. I…’

Antinous patted him kindly on the arm. ‘Well, now you’ve got easier work to do,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘You can put those muscles to better use doing what I want.’

‘That’s very kind of you, master,’ Flaminius said, ‘but…’

He broke off. Slaves did not say “but.” He had to stay in character. Maybe he could turn this chance meeting to his own benefit somehow. Antinous was an imperial protégé, after all, even if he was still attending school. He wondered if it was the school on the Palatine the boy attended, just by the House of Flavius through which they were now passing. Or was it the one on the Caelian Hill, not far from the Peregrine Camp…?

Praetorians marched along the corridors, two abreast, strangely anonymous in their citizen’s togas, identifiable only by military haircuts and suspicious bulges under their right arms. Antinous told him in hushed tones that he had seen one guard’s sword hilt the other day, peeking through the top of his toga.

‘They have to carry swords, you know,’ he told his captive audience, face bright with excited awe, in tones that suggested he was divulging a mystery unknown to the uninitiated, ‘because they have to guard him. Even though it’s against the law. He explained about it last night.’

They ascended a broad flight of steps, turned left and hurried along a corridor whose walls were daubed with bright frescoes depicting the adventures of Hercules. Finally they reached a door which Antinous pushed open, leading his reluctant Ganymede into a large apartment with an unrivalled view of the Circus Maximus and the roofs of Rome, stained red with the last rays of the setting sun.

A plush, scarlet upholstered couch stood in the middle of the marble floor, a small table beside it. Dour looking statues and busts gazed down, all of them philosophers, Flaminius noticed. Socrates, Pythagoras, the aforementioned Plato, Aristotle…

Antinous flung himself down on the couch. Noticing where Flaminius’ gaze had gone, ‘Shocking bores, all of them,’ he said with a dramatic sigh, and a flourish of his hands. ‘He chooses all my furnishings. I’d prefer a few famous gladiators or charioteers. Oh, put those scrolls down here.’ He patted the marble topped table and Flaminius hastened to obey.

‘Will that be all?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Master?’

Antinous shook his head. ‘Wait there,’ he instructed. He unrolled a scroll and peered at it, running his finger along the lines of writing and muttering under his breath. He looked up. ‘Can you read? Yes, of course you can, you must be able to; you work for the Tabularium, don’t you?’

‘Er, yes,’ said Flaminius, wishing the boy would let him get back to his work. ‘I can read.’

Quite what he was going to do now, Flaminius didn’t know. He had to find some way of picking that lock when the librarian wasn’t around, but then there was that chasm to cross. So he also had to find some way to operate the mechanism that controlled the drawbridge… He glanced out of the window. It was getting dark. Something about that worried him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Antinous thrust the scroll into his hands. ‘Read it to me,’ he commanded. ‘I’m supposed to be studying this dreary drivel. It’s better if someone reads it aloud.’

Flaminius unrolled the scroll, wondering why Antinous didn’t have slaves of his own to do this. Surely he did. So why pick on him? Resignedly, he began to read Plato’s Symposium, his mind elsewhere. Wrestling with the conundrum that faced him.

‘…I rather fear, Socrates, said Aristodemus, lest this may still be my case; and that, like Menelaus in Homer, I shall be the inferior person, who to the least of the wise unbidden goes,’ he read out. ‘But I shall say that I was bidden of you, and then you will have to make an excuse. Two going together, he replied, in Homeric fashion, one or other of them may invent an excuse by the way. This was the style of their conversation as they went along...”

‘Yes,’ Antinous interrupted crossly, ‘and very tedious it was, too. I really haven’t a clue what these old bores are talking about. Have you? Except that bit about two going together sounds a bit smutty. Disgusting!’ He leered. ‘Everyone knows what Socrates got up to…’ He yawned. ‘Put the scroll away, Ganymede.’

‘Yes, master.’ Flaminius carefully rerolled the scroll and replaced in its case. He hovered meaningfully, waiting for the youth to dismiss him. But Antinous was giving him an unnerving look.

‘Will that be all, master?’ Flaminius said after a moment longer.

Antinous sighed, and stretched luxuriously on the couch, then rolled over onto his side to get a better look at the slave. ‘Strip for me,’ he said.

Flaminius swallowed. This young fellow was taking one too many liberties. If he hadn’t been the emperor’s protégé, Flaminius would probably have punched him on the jaw. Slave or no slave, he wasn’t willing to accept this kind of treatment from him. It was one thing to be ogled by a superannuated old strumpet like Rhoda. This was quite another.

‘Did you hear me?’ Antinous asked softly. ‘Do you want to be flogged?’

Gritting his teeth, Flaminius took the hem of his threadbare tunic and hauled it over his head. A slave wore little more than that and the sandals he stood up in. He dropped the tunic on the mosaic at his feet, covering the face of Apollo, to spare that god’s blushes, if nothing else.

Antinous reared to his feet. ‘By Hermes, you’ve not only worked in public records,’ he said admiringly. He walked all around Flaminius then stood right in front of him. ‘So many scars!’ he said. ‘And what’s this, this tattoo? Are you a Thracian or a Scythian? This brand between your brows… A slave brand? Surely you were a gladiator! Tell me you were a gladiator!’

‘If I was a gladiator,’ said Flaminius, ‘I’d either be dead or free. Gladiators don’t work in libraries.’

Crushed, Antinous gave him a pout. ‘But you’ve lived a tough life, I can see that,’ he said. ‘Were you a charioteer? No, same argument. But Publius doesn’t have nearly so many scars, and he fought in the legions when he was younger.’ He put a hand over his mouth. ‘Oh! I shouldn’t really call him “Publius” to a slave. You would know him as his imperial majesty.’ He shrugged. ‘Hadrian.’

The door to the passage opened quietly. ‘You’re quite right about that, my dear. You should not be speaking about me in that manner in the presence of a common slave.’

Flaminius’ head shot up in dismay. Standing in the doorway, flanked by two brawny, toga-clad Praetorians, was a bearded man in his late forties, dressed resplendently in a purple dalmatic. They had met before, though it had been some years ago, and in a very different situation. Hastily Flaminius dropped his gaze.

This reaction was still in character; a slave would hardly keep his head up high in so august a presence. But there was another reason why Flaminius did not want to show his face. Memories flashed through his mind: their last meeting in the Villa at Tibur[6]... Their first meeting—same place, but under even more dramatic circumstances. This was the man he had served, at first as an auxiliary tribune attached to the Ninth Legion, then as an imperial agent. The man whose life he had once saved. His imperial majesty, the emperor Hadrian.

‘Guards, dismissed,’ Hadrian said, and the two Praetorians withdrew into the corridor, closing the door behind them.

The emperor crossed over to Antinous, who was staring at his visitor like a frightened doe. Hadrian placed his imperial posterior on the edge of the couch and rooted through the heap of scrolls. He opened the one Flaminius had been reading.

‘And how are you getting along with the Symposium, my dear?’ Hadrian asked.

Antinous pouted sullenly. ‘It doesn’t seem much like any symposium to me,’ he said. ‘I remember the one you held when you came to Claudiopolis!’ He grinned enthusiastically. ‘Now that was a symposium! Wine, music, dancing… These pompous old Greek windbags don’t know how to enjoy themselves.’

Hadrian clicked his tongue disappointedly. ‘You are a Greek yourself, my dear,’ he reminded the boy. ‘Do not renounce your heritage.’

Antinous flounced. ‘But it’s so boring,’ he raged. ‘Why are you always making me read this boring rubbish? If I have to read Greek authors, why not Homer? There’s plenty of action in the Iliad. Why not Chariton, while we’re about it? I saw a copy of Callirhoe in the library! I once heard a storyteller reading it out in the marketplace in Nicomedia. At least it’s got a plot. This Symposium is pointless.’

Uncomfortably Flaminius witnessed this lover’s tiff, wishing he was a thousand miles away. Even the wilds of Caledonia were better than this.

‘Please don’t call Plato’s finest work on love pointless,’ Hadrian said indignantly. ‘And never mention a writer of romantic rubbish like Chariton in the same breath as the divine Homer! I must speak to your tutor. Surely he has taught you better than this.’

‘I hate it, hate it, hate it!’ Antinous bawled. ‘I don’t know why you’re allowed to go out hunting and having fun while I have to stay in the palace bored rigid by Plato! It’s so unfair!’ Tears ran down his face.

‘Antinous, Antinous please,’ Hadrian said soothingly. ‘I am trying to ensure that you have the best education you can have!’

‘I don’t want the best education I can have, I only want to enjoy myself! I didn’t even get to see the races today except out of the school windows!’

Hadrian bristled. ‘Is that why you’ve got this slave in here, stripped naked? You want to enjoy yourself? What did you intend to do? A good thing I came in when I did. Have you not read what Plato says about carnal love?’

Antinous was seething with rage. ‘That’s just typical of you and your filthy mind, Publius!’ he shouted wildly at the ruler of the world. ‘This slave, I was… studying him! You want me to study sculpture, don’t you? Anatomy? Well, I’ve never seen such a fine specimen. Besides, I think he’s wasted in libraries. He should be sent to the arena. He’d have his work cut out for him.’

Stricken, Flaminius looked up. Hadrian was gazing in obvious pain at his tearful protégé. It was clear who held the whip hand here.

‘Send him to the arena?’ Hadrian barely looked at Flaminius’s face, but his eyes took in the tribune’s physique, much as he might examine a promising steed. ‘Is that really what you want, my dear? Maybe you’re right. A fine specimen indeed, if a little battered. He’s clearly wasted here. If that’s what you want, he’ll be sent to the Colosseum training school at once.’

Flaminius’ blood ran cold.

—6—

He had fought in the arena before, and even survived, obviously, but that had been in the provinces, where travelling troupes of gladiators, mainly freemen, fought to first blood, but very rarely to the death—it was simply too expensive. But in Rome, at the Colosseum, the mob expected blood, and copious amounts of it. Being sent to fight in the Colosseum as a slave was tantamount to a death sentence.

Antinous turned to look thoughtfully in his direction. Hadrian followed his gaze. A frown creased the emperor’s face.

‘Where did you say he was working? The library? He looks familiar… I can’t quite place him.’

‘Apparently he works in the Tabularium,’ said Antinous loftily. ‘Public records. But I found him when I was in Tiberius’ library and thought he looked strong enough to carry all the books on my reading list. And he can read, too, really well! He does all the different voices, it’s just as good as going to the theatre. Better, even! So I had him read from the Symposium, to make it more exciting. Then I got to thinking how good he’d look as a gladiator. Those muscles, oiled, glistening in the sun… Though I don’t really like watching gladiatorial games, they turn my stomach. I prefer chariot racing.’

‘As a good Greek, so you should,’ said Hadrian absently. ‘But, by Jove! We can’t possibly send this slave to the arena!’

‘No?’ said Antinous. ‘Why not?’

‘Why, he’s public property,’ Hadrian exclaimed. ‘He belongs to the state, if he works in the Tabularium, the senate and people of Rome. What would the consuls say if I were to consign a public slave to the Colosseum? High handed behaviour worthy of Tiberius himself.’ He shook his head. ‘You must put him back where you found him. At once!’

‘But he’s helping me with my studies…!’

‘Philosophy is what you are studying at the moment, my dear,’ said Hadrian dryly. ‘Not anatomy.’ He looked pensive. ‘Very well, if he has been of assistance with your reading, then he shall continue until the first watch of the night is done, and you are permitted leisure time. But first I must speak with him.’

He clicked his finger and beckoned to Flaminius.

The erstwhile imperial agent followed his former employer out onto the balcony overlooking the Circus Maximus and the City beyond. The evening air was chill on his skin, but Hadrian seemed not to notice his trembling.

‘Antinous is destined for great things,’ he said, hands behind his back, eyes on the lights of Rome. ‘Do you know, when I first saw him in that hovel in Bithynia, I knew it, recognised it, saw him for what he was, for what destiny had in store. A mysterious, numinous future awaits him. But first he has to be moulded, melded, by a superior man.’ He turned to look at the slave. ‘Who better than the emperor of Rome?’

Flaminius knew a rhetorical question when he heard one, he’d had a classical education himself. He kept quiet.

‘I am his Socrates,’ the bearded man added; ‘he is my Alcibiades.

‘Yet his sublime essence is trapped within mortal flesh,’ Hadrian went on, ‘and it is not yet that his spirit shall be freed to join the gods above. And that flesh is as fallible as yours or mine. Sadly, the young Antinous is as prone to carnal lusts as any other young man of his age; as indeed was Alcibiades. That is why I urge him to study the works of Plato, the Symposium above all. The love that lifts us up above the mutable mortal world is what he should aspire to, not animal desire.’

Hadrian raised his hands and nodded his head. ‘Very well, I myself am no stranger to carnality. But Antinous must be preserved for a better fate, a higher destiny. He is quite taken with you, I can see that very well, and it is understandable. If I were his age, I would seek to sate my lust in the body of a slave such as you.’ He nodded again. ‘Oh yes, even the emperor is not averse to what the mob refer to as “Greek love”. But I would have you draw him on to more intellectual loves, through literature and philosophy.’

The emperor leaned nearer, lifting Flaminius’ chin to look at him closely. So closely the latter was afraid Hadrian would finally be able to place him. But no. It did not cross the emperor’s mind that this abject slave could be anything other than what he seemed.

‘I would have you report to me if he shows any more tendency towards carnality,’ he murmured. ‘Read the Symposium to him until the first watch is over. Do your best to bring it to life for him, as he says you have already done. Then you may return to your own work. Do you understand me?’ He let go of Flaminius’ chin and Flaminius nodded. ‘If he makes any advances on you, slave, you must report it to me.’

He led Flaminius back into Antinous’ chamber. The youth sat sullenly on his couch, face flushed, hands behind his back. If Flaminius didn’t know any better, he might have thought Antinous had just sat back down there after eavesdropping, but Hadrian was sublimely oblivious.

‘Very well, my dear,’ the emperor said. ‘This public records slave has agreed to continue reading to you until the end of the first watch. Then he will return to his duties, and your study will be over for the day. I will see you in the dining chamber.’

Hadrian rapped on the door and it was opened at once by one of the Praetorians, who had evidently been awaiting him in the corridor. The emperor swept out, turning to give Antinous one last meaningful look; then the door closed as he marched off down the corridor, followed by the two Praetorians.

Slowly Antinous rose from the couch, fixing his emerald eyes on Flaminius. They blazed like fetid marsh gas seen from afar. His hands were still behind his back, as if he was aping his imperial master.

‘So!’ he spat. ‘You’re going to help me in my education, are you, Ganymede?’ This question was not rhetorical.

Flaminius nodded, eyes downcast. ‘Such is his imperial majesty’s command,’ he said.

On the whole, he had got off lightly. Hadrian obviously didn’t recognise him as the imperial agent who had rescued him in the Tiburtine Villa five years ago[7]. From such Olympian altitudes, the faces of such minor functionaries must all look alike. Now all Flaminius had to do was read Plato to this stripling and then he could return to the library and make a second attempt to get into the secret archive…

Antinous made a face. He brought his hands out from behind his back and Flaminius saw that he held a short wood handled whip, its three ox-hide thongs knotted with pieces of iron.

‘So, you’re the emperor’s spy,’ he said viciously.

‘You were listening, then,’ Flaminius said, eyeing the vicious scourge.

He had seen slaves being whipped. Each stroke drew blood, removed skin. The thrashings he had received from his tutor when he was Antinous’ age would be mild by comparison. Even the flogging of recalcitrant legionaries was as nothing to the punishment of slaves and criminals.

‘Yes I was,’ said Antinous. ‘And I was the one who saved you from being sent to the arena, Ganymede! If I hadn’t told him that you were a public records slave, Publius would have consigned you to the Colosseum. Your life would be short.’ This wasn’t quite how Flaminius remembered it.

‘You ingrate!’ The boy lifted the whip high. ‘Now you’ll taste the lash, more than you can stomach!’

As he swung it with all his force it curled around Flaminius’ loins with swingeing force. Quick as lightning, Flaminius seized the thongs, disregarding the blood that ran down his side, and hauled on them, dragging Antinous off his feet. He grabbed the youth by the wrist and twisted the scourge from his hand, then sent it flying into a dark corner. Antinous struggled in his grasp, sobbing, wailing, pounding on Flaminius’ chest with his free hand until the imperial agent caught that too.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ Antinous sobbed hysterically. ‘You’re a slave, Ganymede! You have to do what I say! Give me that whip!’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘His imperial majesty told me that I was to read to you,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re not!’ Antinous said. ‘You’re hurting me.’ Flaminius’ grip on his wrists was tight. ‘He also told you to spy on me! And you agreed, you worm.’

He looked up into Flaminius’ face. ‘I admired you, Ganymede,’ he panted. ‘Your body is superb!’

Flaminius wished people would stop admiring his physique. All it took was five years of constant terror and struggle, on top of an active life in the legions. Even before that, he had been something of an athlete. Pheidippides, his friends had called him for his skill in running. All that gymnastic practice had helped immeasurably in his recent career.

He lifted Antinous struggling off the ground and dropped him down on the couch, then retrieved his tunic from where it lay on the mosaic floor and shrugged back into it. Then he picked up the scroll from the table. Unrolling it, he found the passage where he had left off, and began again.

‘I enjoyed wrestling with you,’ said a bored voice. Flaminius had barely got to the end of Apollodorus’ dialogue.

Flaminius looked up wearily. ‘Please let me finish, master.’

Antinous sat up, simpering. ‘You really are terribly strong, Ganymede,’ he said, rising and putting his arms around Flaminius’ neck. ‘Let me rub some unguent into that weal.’

He produced a medicine chest and took out a small glass bottle. Removing the stopper he took out a dab of unguent and took a long time about slathering it on Flaminius’ weal. He allowed the tunic to flop back, then rose.

‘There,’ he said. ‘We’re all friends now. You’re not going to tell Publius anything, are you? You really are so very handsome.’ He scowled. ‘I always have old men drooling all over me, it’s not fair. Why am I never allowed to take an interest in men? You’re only a slave, after all. If I want to have you, I should be allowed to.’

Flaminius picked up the scroll again. Antinous clasped his hands in his own and pushed it gently back down. ‘I can think I know how we could have so much more fun, Ganymede,’ he whispered.

‘Master, it is almost time for you to go to the dining chamber,’ Flaminius said, nodding in the direction of a water clock. The first watch of the night was almost complete. ‘Let me finish reading and then I must return to my duties.’

He realised what it was that had been troubling him. It was night. The Guard was changed at the beginning of the first watch. And it was the duty of the tribune of the Night Guard to change the password. Unless Flaminius could somehow find out what it was, he would have to work out some other way of departing the imperial palace—assuming he could access the secret archive and complete his mission.

Antinous made a moue of disdain. ‘Maybe I will be late for dinner,’ he said. ‘Because I want you, Ganymede. I am determined to have you.’

‘I am under orders to inform the emperor if you make any advances on me,’ Flaminius warned him.

Antinous threw up his hands. ‘I’m not allowed any fun,’ he snarled, red faced, and flung himself down on the couch.

‘Will that be all, master?’ Flaminius asked pointedly.

Antinous looked up. ‘You wish to continue your original duties?’

Flaminius nodded. Antinous gave him a grin.

‘You were trying to get into that archive under the library,’ he said. ‘Cyprian was berating you when I took you on to carry my books.’

Flaminius nodded again. ‘I am supposed to check the grain requisition records,’ he said tiredly. ‘They are in that archive. Cyprian, if that’s his name, has been no help.’

‘You won’t get in there,’ said Antinous. ‘The library will be closed now. But even if it was open, it would be impossible for you to get across the gap and into the archive. Still… I happen to know that the mechanism for that drawbridge is in the porter’s lodge. I’m allowed everywhere. I could access it…’

‘You could?’ Flaminius gulped.

‘Yes,’ said Antinous, ‘and I will. But I can’t do it now, I’ve got to go to dinner. And besides, I would expect payment.’ He looked Flaminius up and down. ‘If I do this for you, will you join me in my bedchamber tonight, when all are asleep?’

—7—

Flaminius hurried down the lamp lit corridors of the House of Flavius, wondering if he had made the right decision. Whenever he heard the tramp of toga-clad guards, he went to ground in one or other deserted chamber. To his relief, none of the Praetorians spotted him. Not one of them challenged him. But how in Jove’s name could he hope to learn the new password? Surely slaves and freedman of the imperial staff were told it, or were they all under curfew?

When Antinous had accused him of being the emperor’s spy, it had given him a nasty jolt. At first he had wondered if the Bithynian youth knew more than he ought to. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? He mulled the idea over in his mind as he made the journey back to the House of Tiberius. He had to confront the fact that he was no longer an imperial agent. This matter was purely private, between Probus and him.

Something had gone wrong. The entire Commissary had been replaced, or at least those based in the Peregrine Camp had. Presumably they would be phasing out all the Probus loyalists as and when they returned to Rome. Flaminius’ early return had been unexpected, he supposed, and they had been wrong-footed. Otherwise they would have done a better job of neutralising a potential enemy.

Outright murder might be difficult to explain, but by simply cold-shouldering Flaminius, they had effectively created a rod for their own backs.

As he passed out into the moonlit gardens, he rubbed at the weal in his flank. That vicious Bithynian brat had been enjoying himself! Even if he had spared Flaminius a one way ticket to the Colosseum, he had had his sadistic way with him—and he hoped to go further. Flaminius shivered, and not just with the night’s chill.

When he was growing up, one of his favourite authors had been Petronius. The Satyricon had kept him entertained in his student days, when he should really have been reading dry legal treatises. The desperate adventures of Encolpius and Giton had struck a poignant chord with a student trying to get by on nothing more than a stingy allowance from his family. But the idea of living that kind of life had lost its appeal since he joined the legions. Now—was he to make the ultimate sacrifice? And not even in the name of Rome, either—in the name of Probus. He’d never wanted to go down in history. It was asking a bit too much! Oaths taken under duress were not binding, and he hadn’t even sworn to share Antinous’ bed.

He waited until two patrolling Praetorians passed along the portico, then shot inside.

His sandaled feet rang loud on the mosaic floors of the House of Tiberius. Lamps guttered in marble corners, throwing eerie shadows across the veined walls. Busts of forgotten emperors looked darkly down at this interloper, the shadows giving them sardonic stares, as if they knew full well that they viewed scenes of skulduggery.

At last he reached the north wing, and the entrance to the library. Antinous would be going to the porters’ lodge after dinner. That would be sometime during the third watch.

The doors of the library were shut fast. Optimistically, Flaminius rattled them. Of course, they were locked. The librarian, Cyprian if that was his name, had not become a freedman for being negligent on the job.

Back when Probus was been coaching Flaminius for the Commissary, he had learnt all the finer points of lock picking. Unfortunately, the first requisite was some kind of lock pick, and his slave tunic was fresh out of them. Where in Hades was he going to find or fabricate a lock pick?

He tried all the neighbouring doors, hoping to find a room where he could find… some wire, maybe? Something he could use to trip the lock. All the doors along this corridor were locked. Well, naturally. Now, all he needed was a lock pick (and some patience) and he could open them all, and find himself the wire he needed to make himself a lock pick… No, hang on, that just wasn’t going to work.

He went back to the library doors and studied them pensively. He could think of no way of getting in that wouldn’t create the kind of racket that ought to bring Praetorians running, swords miraculously appearing from underneath their togas. Brute force would have been the answer if only he wasn’t in an imperial palace.

He was lucky no passing patrol had already picked him up for loitering.

He leant his sweaty forehead against the cold wood of the door and tried to think. How else could he gain access into the library? It was only a library, after all, not a high security vault. The vault was down below, but if Antinous came through, the high security side was catered for. As for getting into the library in the first place, however… Flaminius was at an absolute loss.

He tried to picture the interior. Even though he had only been in there once, his training came to the fore, and he could picture the scene as well as if he was on the other side of these wearisomely solid doors. The whole chamber was circular, large enough to be a small to medium sized temple, and lined with stacks containing pigeon holes in which any number of mundane volumes were kept. To one side stood the librarian’s desk. Opposite that, hidden by the stacks, was the staircase leading down to the doorway beyond which was the chasm over the sewer. Past that was the drawbridge. It should be lowered sometime soon.

All Flaminius needed to do was get in there.

In his mind, he trudged back up those steps and stood in the library. Shadows lay everywhere, moonlight stained the veined marble a mottled silver. Everything was in silence. Except for the moonlight, darkness was total—no torches would still be burning in there. Silence reigned in the library of the House of T…

Moonlight?

Where was it coming from? There was a skylight in the roof, of course, but also there was a window overlooking the Roman Forum, giving a particularly good if potentially prurient view of the House of the Vestals. It would be shuttered by now, but the slats would still permit moonlight to enter, and maybe they’d be just as generous to a desperate spy…

Pushing himself away from the door Flaminius turned, grinning. That was it! That was how he would access the library after hours.

He heard feet tramping towards him from the south wing, and headed north. He didn’t know where he was going as such, but he wanted to get out onto the north wall of the building and work his way along. The shutters would take some negotiating, but they would be the least of his worries. His tiny figure would be visible to anyone in the Roman Forum below.

The cold wind struck Flaminius as he stepped outside to find himself at the top of the abutments that loomed over the Forum. Down below, a thousand lights of torches and lamps and fires transformed the City into a fallen zodiac of night, and his nose twitched at a myriad of stenches: cooking fires, temple incense, the pungent reek that rose from the Cloaca Maxima, covered as it was. Though sweeter than it was in high summer, Rome stank so much it was a surprise Jove didn’t send a thunderbolt to destroy the whole festering swamp.

But Jove, if there was such a gentleman, was far away from this reeking quagmire of corruption, if Flaminius’ epicurean philosophy could be trusted.

He followed a narrow ledge along the top of the abutments, the House of Tiberius looming above him. The wind whispered in his ears, tugged at his threadbare tunic as if it was as lascivious minded as the lusty young Antinous, and chilled Flaminius until he felt he would never be warm again. When he got out of this situation, he promised himself, he would drink wine until he no longer knew his own name. But that would have to wait for later, if there ever was a later.

He reached the windows of the library.

They were secured, as he had known they would be, with shutters of cedar wood. These had been exposed to the wind and the rain, the snow, and the sun of Rome in every season. Every night they were subjected to the battering of wind and storm, rain and sleet. In summer, Rome was hot—although the heat was nothing by comparison with the balmy climes Flaminius had grown accustomed to in recent years. All the same, a Roman winter could be as miserable as Eboracum on any day of the year. And the shutters, when Flaminius tested them, felt like they had not been replaced since the Divine Tiberius had died raging at an edict of the Senate.

Flaminius slid his fingers under the slats of one shutter, his muscles standing out on his arms in a way that would no doubt excite young Antinous as he heaved at it. And heaved.

And heaved.

The crack, when it came, rang out loud and harsh—across the whole torch-lit city, he was certain. Shaking with fright, Flaminius seized hold of the broken wood, trying to muffle the sound, earning himself a splinter in the thumb for his pains. Wincing, he squeezed it back out, one eye on the streets below.

He waited for the inevitable tread of sandaled feet and the appearance of anonymous looking citizens, toga clad and with suspicious, sword shaped bulges under their arms. But no Praetorians emerged, and Flaminius turned to survey the results of his barbaric manhandling of the venerable shutters.

There was a definite hole and through it could be seen the library floor. Good. He worked swiftly and silently at enlarging it. Moments later, he was slipping his entire body through the hole; his feet clattered down on the marble window sill beyond, loud enough to send echoes racing across the shadow shrouded library.

Scrambling down to floor level he crouched in the cover of a stack, waiting for Praetorians to enter, glaring angrily about them. Again, nothing happened. Singularly negligent, he told himself. If he’d had such slipshod men under him when he was tribune of auxiliary cavalry…

But anyway. He was in. And that was what mattered.

Like a silent shadow, he slid across the slippery marble floor to the librarian’s desk, and searched about blindly to lay his hands on the keys. After a while, he gave up. It had been expecting too much for Cyprian to have left them there overnight. No doubt they were somewhere secure.

All he found of any use was flint and a fire steel.

The yawning mouth of the steps resembled the entrance to a grave in the gloom of the library. He trod the stairs gingerly as he made his way down. After busting into the library, the door should be simple enough to break open.

And so, to his relief, it proved. A single, well placed kick shattered the silence, and the door sprang smartly open to emit a waft of cold, stinking air. Flaminius crouched silently in the stairwell for some time, waiting for the library doors to burst open and Praetorians to flood in.

Nothing happened. He edged forwards. To his infinite surprise, he did not plummet with a splash into the reeking sewer. Instead, his feet clattered on the wooden planks of a drawbridge.

Antinous had done it! The Bithynian brat had come through! Now Flaminius owed him. But it was not a price he was willing to pay.

Hastily, he hurried back up into the library, and after some searching found a lamp in one corner. Lighting this with the aid of the fire steel that he had found on Cyprian’s desk, he held his hand cupped round its flame as he returned to the steps. Shadows loomed and leapt on either hand as he came back down to the doorway. The drawbridge lay across the gap like the tongue of some monster of ancient days. Beyond it gaped the dark vertical rectangle of the secret archive entrance.

Flaminius sighed with relief. He was almost there.

The drawbridge resounded to his footsteps like the drums of a barbarian army, but he didn’t care. The place stank to high Olympus but he didn’t care. He was almost within sight of his goal. As he entered the secret archive, he lifted his stolen lamp high.

The yellow light illuminated a long vault, so long it must reach as far as the granite abutments of the palace. On either side stood more stacks. He paced along, looking for the relevant shelf. Here it was, this year. Now, a bit further down. There was the code for Africa… Arabia… Asia… Britain… Cyrenaica… Dacia… Dacia! Junius Italicus’ report was finally within his reach.

He paused to survey this shelf, sweat standing out on his brow despite the cold. His eyes fell upon the neatly inscribed code: DAC: AVC: DCCCLXXVIII: CAL. IAN, and he snatched the scroll in its scroll case from the pigeon hole with one hand, still holding the guttering lamp high in the other. He slid the scroll case under his arm, and hurried from the vault.

As he reached the other side of the drawbridge, his lamp, almost at its last ebb, shone upon the shadowed face of a silently waiting figure, its arms folded in seeming boredom.

‘So you got here,’ came Antinous’ voice. ‘I knew you would. Now let’s see just what it was that was so important that you would go to such lengths to locate it.’

A slender hand reached out to snatch the scroll case.

—8—

It had been a trap.

Realisation dawned in Flaminius’ mind even as he snatched the case away. As he moved backwards, there was a rumble from behind him and the drawbridge shot up to reveal the yawning chasm. A stinking breath of wind caused goose pimples to crawl across Flaminius’ skin.

Antinous grabbed his tunic and hauled him back. As he did, he grabbed the scroll case, taking advantage of Flaminius’ distraction, and peered at it.

‘I thought so…’ he breathed, reading the code. ‘The report from Dacia. We let you do this so we could learn what was so urgent that you came here disguised as a slave…’

‘We?’ said Flaminius. ‘You and the emperor?’

Antinous looked puzzled. ‘The emperor…?’

He broke off as Flaminius sprang forwards, seizing the scroll case in one hand and shoving Antinous backwards with the flat of the other. The youth sprawled back against the steps, glaring petulantly up at Flaminius while rubbing at the back of his head.

‘I’d like to stay and chat,’ Flaminius informed him, ‘I’m sure it would be interesting. But I think it’s high time I was gone.’

Antinous used the sides of the stairwell to help himself up, shouting for the guards.

With a feeling of deep satisfaction, Flaminius hit him on the jaw and he dropped like a stone to lie unspeaking, eyes closed, on the steps. Flaminius stepped over his unconscious form and ascended the steps. If any Praetorians had heard the youth’s cries, he needed to get himself out of here as soon as possible. With luck, though, that soft voice had not carried far enough.

As his head bobbed over the top of the flight of steps, he halted. It was silent in the library except for the hoarse breathing of the unconscious youth. The main doors stood slightly ajar. This must be how Antinous had got in. He had lowered the drawbridge from the porter’s lodge, then come straight here—to find out what Flaminius was after. This beardless boy had been onto him from the beginning.

As Flaminius hurried up the remaining steps, two sheeted phantoms appeared from the stacks on either side. Flaminius froze. These were no ghosts, he realised. Both drew swords from beneath the folds of their bone white togas and advanced grimly.

‘Stay where you are!’ shouted the first of the Praetorians, voice ringing out in the musty stillness of the library.

Flaminius looked wildly about him. The Praetorians had cut off every avenue of escape except one. His mind racing, he retreated back down the steps, his sandaled foot connecting with something soft yet firm—Antinous’ fallen form.

Moving like the apparitions they resembled, the Praetorians reached the top of the steps, swords glinting in the dim light from the window.

‘He’s murdered the emperor’s bum boy!’ cried the second Praetorian. ‘Get the bastard!’

They rushed down the steps, which were so narrow they could only go one abreast. Flaminius halted by the open door, the breeze from the sewer plucking at his threadbare tunic. Reaching Antinous’ fallen form, the lead Praetorian crouched briefly and checked him for signs of life. He looked back at his comrade.

‘Still alive, but he’ll need a medic. Go and get help. I’ll deal with this spy.’

The second Praetorian ran back up the steps, vanishing into the darkness. As the clatter of his sandaled feet was swallowed by the oppressive silence, the other Praetorian advanced, sword firm in his hand.

Now Flaminius had only a single opponent. But the Praetorian carried a military issue short sword: a cubit and a half of Iberian steel, with two cutting edges and a stabbing point. This was the sword the Romans had adopted from their native enemies while fighting in the Iberian Peninsula. With such short swords Rome had conquered the world. All Flaminius had to hand was a leather scroll case, containing a document of extremely high significance. But he flourished it as if it was a sword.

The Praetorian laughed harshly. ‘Put that down, slave,’ he said. ‘You’ve no hope. Surrender and prepare yourself for a spell with the interrogator division.’

Flaminius knew exactly what that would mean. He had sat in on enough interrogations to know the tortures routinely used—on slaves. But he was a citizen. Citizens were exempt from torture.

‘I’m no slave,’ he spat. ‘And you won’t take me alive.’

Again the Praetorian laughed. ‘That’s not the spirit of a slave,’ he observed, as he lunged with his sword. Instinctively, Flaminius brought up the scroll case in a circular parry. He deflected the lunging steel, but in the process the guard cut off the end of the case.

They both halted as the severed cup of leather hit the steps and went bouncing down hem, leaping past Flaminius and vaulting over the edge of the chasm. Moments later, a splash echoed up from the depths.

‘Dead or alive makes no difference to me, spy,’ the Praetorian growled. He cut at Flaminius, who ducked, then sprang backwards.

Now he teetered on the edge of the chasm. The sewer breeze billowed under his tunic. He gripped the maimed scroll case as the Praetorian followed him down the steps, sword at the ready.

Flaminius turned, and leapt off the edge.

Dropping his sword with a clatter, the Praetorian lunged for him—but too late. The spy was gone. The Praetorian gripped the edge of the chasm and peered down. A splash echoed from below, and with it came a spraying spout of stinking water.

Dripping with sewage, he peered into the darkness, but he could see no sign of the spy.

Probus sniffed. He grimaced with revulsion as he abstracted the documents from the scroll case and unrolled them on the rough wooden table top. The sewer water had stained them all along one side, and the ink here had run or blotted, although the rest was legible.

He looked up, his lips curling. ‘You need a bath, tribune,’ he told the figure slumped in the chair before him.

Flaminius looked round the cramped room in the Argiletum lodging house, and gave a hollow laugh.

‘I didn’t have the time to pop into a bathhouse,’ he said. ‘I thought it best I bring you the Dacia dossier straightaway.’ He eyed the documents that had been within the scroll case. ‘It got a bit damp when I fell in the sewer,’ he added apologetically, then rubbed his aching limbs. He had hit the water with enough force to knock the breath from him, almost losing his grip on the case.

It had been nothing but darkness and water and stench and confusion as he was whirled away at great speed down the subterranean tunnel, along with all the palace sewage. At some point, the channel joined the Cloaca Maxima itself and at last he had been washed out into the Tiber with all the rest of Rome’s waste. Bruised and confused, vomiting wretchedly, he had hidden underneath the arches of the Bridge of Fabricius until morning, when, cold and dispirited, and more than a little pungent, he had made his way through the deserted streets to the Argiletum.

He’d been lucky. One of those gods he didn’t believe in must have been looking out for him. Not only had he survived drowning in the biggest sewer of them all, it seemed highly likely that the Praetorians, and Antinous—and whoever was behind Antinous—would believe the slave Ganymede to be dead.

The barkeep at the House of the Satyr had been opening up for the day, and he had sniffed at this bedraggled guest as much as Probus was doing, but when Flaminius gave him the code word “Burebista” he had changed his attitude. Flaminius was shown upstairs and into Probus’ current quarters.

‘A dramatic exit,’ said Probus dryly. ‘Well, the good news is that most of Junius Italicus’ report is legible. Go to the nearest bathhouse while I read it through fully. You stink to high heaven, tribune. And get yourself a new tunic.’ He flung him a few coins which jingled on the table top.

Flaminius gave him a glower. This was hardly the welcome for a returning hero; he’d covered himself in glory last night, that and other things less palatable. But Probus was too intent on reading the report to notice his expression. Flaminius snatched the coins, flounced out like a spurned catamite and went looking for somewhere to wash off the mud and stink.

An hour later he returned to Probus’ lodgings washed and refreshed, wearing a new tunic, cheap but less threadbare than the last, still nibbling at the last fragments of a pastry he had bought with his last few coppers. His usual good spirits had been considerably restored, although he had kept an eye open for mysterious figures following him.

‘I told you about that Bithynian, didn’t I?’ he said as the barkeep ushered him into Probus’ room. The floorboards creaked as he went to sit on the single chair. Probus was cross-legged on the bed, the table pulled up close. The documents were rolled up neatly and there was a pensive expression on his drawn face.

He looked up. ‘Yes, you did,’ he said. ‘From your description, he’s the lad who brought me the news of my dismissal. Hadrian’s protégé.’

‘The “emperor’s bum boy” is how the Praetorians phrased it,’ said Flaminius. ‘Less elegant, perhaps, but it hits the spot. From what I saw, the old goat our former employer has fallen hopelessly for that catamite’s Asiatic charms. It wouldn’t the first time a favourite ran the empire.’

Probus shook his head. ‘I think not. He’s exercising the power his position gives him, but his imperial majesty is still in control. This Antinous is playing his own game—a sophisticated one for a youth who might be better off playing knucklebones.’

‘He certainly played a merry game with me,’ said Flaminius. ‘Convinced me he was lusty after my manly physique, but all along he recognised me as a spy. Someone else was working with him, it seems. He agreed to help me that he could learn what I was about. Still, I gave him a game of knucklebones he won’t forget in a hurry.’ He looked affectionately at his fist and blew upon it.

Probus scowled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘You’ve made yourself a powerful enemy. You have a knack for it.’

‘But with you as my friend, what need I to fear?’ Flaminius asked innocently. ‘After all, you still have influence, if only amongst the criminal scum of the City. Where did you pick up that Rhoda, by the way? She’s quite a catch for a man of your age.’

‘Our relationship is strictly one of business,’ said Probus testily. ‘Now, to other matters. Close study of Junius Italicus’ report tells me much of what I wanted to know. His informants in Dacia confirmed that the treasure of Decebalus was removed from the caves where it was kept after the Dacian war. Supposedly the operation was carried out at Trajan’s orders, but comparatively little of the gold reached the treasury in Rome. A vexillation of the Fortunate Twenty Second Legion[8] based in Moesia[9] was sent to retrieve it. That is the last that was ever heard of it. Until now.’

Flaminius groaned. ‘I might have known. No, don’t tell me, you want me to go to Moesia to pick up a trail that went cold when I was still in swaddling clouts?’

Probus smiled thinly. ‘No. But I do have a job for you. At one point in his diligent report, which undoubtedly would have resulted in scandal at the highest level if I had been able to read it fully when I was still Chief, Junius Italicus makes a reference to another document, a certain memorandum. I would previously have had no trouble requesting the memorandum, which relates to events in Moesia a few years later, during Pompeius Falco governorship of that province. Sadly, I am in no position to do so.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius. ‘And there was me thinking rest would be the best medicine. You want me to get you this Moesia memorandum, is that it? Tell me it’s not in the palace.’

Probus shook his head. ‘It is kept in an entirely different location. In a few days’ time you’ll have to get your bags packed, tribune, if you have any, for a nice little trip into the hills. To Tibur, in fact.’

Flaminius stared at him. Tibur was a small town in the foothills of the Apennines. There was nothing remarkable about it except for one thing… ‘The Tiburtine Villa?’

Probus nodded. ‘The Moesia memorandum is kept in the Latin Library in Hadrian’s villa. I would like you to travel there and gain access to it. I will provide you with the classification code that will help you find the memorandum. Remove it from the library and bring it back here. On no account should you read the contents.’

At this, Flaminius gave Probus a look. He glanced at the neatly rerolled documents.

‘I’m supposed to go to all this trouble for you and you won’t even let me read these dossiers and memoranda?’

Probus shook his head. ‘A need to know basis, tribune.’

Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure I still am a tribune,’ he said. He looked Probus in the eye. ‘So I don’t need to know, is that it?’

Probus shrugged. ‘All you need to do is follow orders.’

‘I like that,’ said Flaminius, not liking it one bit. ‘We’re on our own here—aren’t we? We’re not in the legions now, we’re on the outside. We’re finding out why they sacked you—sacked me, too… But what reason do I have to follow your orders?’

Probus heaved his shoulders wearily. ‘You have just given the reason,’ he said. ‘It is a riddle that puzzles us both. As in the past, you must leave the administration in my hands, tribune, and I assure you the mystery will be solved. We will learn what lies at the back of all these strange events. What—and who.’

‘Antinous seems to loom largely in it all,’ said Flaminius, ‘for such a youngster.’

Probus shook his head. ‘Antinous is a tool.’ He sighed as Flaminius nodded in vigorous agreement. ‘I am saying that he is a catspaw,’ he added. ‘Someone else is using him.’

‘I realise that. But who?’

‘We will find out,’ Probus assured him. ‘Sooner or later. And then we will experience a dramatic reversal in our fortunes. But for now, you must trust me. Is that understood?’

For a long time Flaminius did not answer him.

Book Two: The Moesia Memorandum

—9—

Gardens of Sallust, Rome, 29th March 125 AD

In spring the gardens were beautiful. Trees and shrubs were budding or blossoming, bees buzzed happily from flower to flower. The sun was warm, but not overbearingly hot as it was during the Dog Days, when many of the plants in the large public gardens would wither, and the grass of the lawns would turn sere and yellow despite the best efforts of the slave gardeners. At this time of morning it was quiet, and only a few couples or small groups were to be seen strolling across the grass or threading the winding paths between the trees.

In places stood villas with walls of white stucco and red tiled roofs. Round a corner, a meandering stone path led up to a temple of Venus, but the gates to its inner sanctum were closed at this time of the morning. Birds flew overhead, attracted by the insects that danced cheerfully from flower to flower. All was calm and tranquil.

Flaminius halted in the shade of a tall plane tree and considered the scene. He was still unwell, and in pain from his plunge into the Palatine sewer, though it was some days since his escape. He was getting old, he scolded himself. When he had been younger he would have shrugged off an adventure like that, swigging a few jars in a wine shop before stealing kisses from the nearest unattached female. Now a simple dive into the foul waters of the sewer, followed by a helpless whirl through the Cloaca Maxima, winding up washed up and breathless on the muddy banks of Old Father Tiber, and he was convalescent for days.

It was certainly pleasant to wander the byways of the Gardens of Sallust. He hadn’t been here since his student days, when it had been a popular hangout for him and his friends. That was before he gave up on study and joined the legions. He always appreciated the chance to get out of the smoke and noise of Rome, even on so short a trip as this, just over the Tiber.

He continued walking, occasionally shifting the kitbag he carried from one shoulder to the other. Despite the peace and quiet, he couldn’t fully relax. He had sneaked here through the early morning streets, glancing about surreptitiously in case he was being followed. Who it was who was spying on him he didn’t know, although he had definite suspicions. The irony! A spy under surveillance by another spy.

Except he was no longer a spy, of course. He was no longer an imperial agent. So in Pluto’s name, what was he now?

Turning another corner, he climbed a short rise that led to a wooden bridge across a pond where frogs sat croaking on large lily pads. On the far side was an island containing a small marble rotunda. After crossing the bridge he walked up a gravel path and entered the cool shade of an arbour. Inside was a fresco showing Theseus in the labyrinth. A marble bench ran along one wall, its surface blotched with yellow and white lichen. A bearded man sat there, admiring the view through the archway.

Flaminius sat beside him, setting down the kitbag at his feet.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ said Probus lazily, glancing quizzically at the beard Flaminius had begun growing.

‘I don’t know why we had to come all the way out here,’ Flaminius said. ‘And if I’m late, that’s because it took me ages to find the right rotunda. I’d forgotten how many there are in these Gardens. Sallust certainly liked his rotundas.’

‘It was Julius Caesar who had these gardens laid out,’ Probus told him. ‘Sallust bought them after the dictator’s assassination, but after his own death they entered imperial hands. The emperors have made them a public amenity. A useful trysting place. Have you read his Histories?’

‘Sallust’s?’ asked Flaminius. ‘No. No, not really. I started reading them one summer when I had nothing better to do, but I didn’t get through the first book. Did I miss anything?’

Probus did not reply, but instead he absently toyed with the silver signet ring on his finger. For a moment there was silence.

‘Did anyone follow you?’ he asked finally.

Flaminius scratched his head. ‘If they did, I wish they were working for me,’ he said. ‘I left my lodgings at dawn and went by the dingiest back streets I could find. I kept my eyes open, but didn’t make it obvious I was looking for anyone. At least I don’t think I did… No. Nobody followed me. And you?’

Probus was staring fixedly at an ilex tree on the far side of the pond. ‘I was followed,’ he said, ‘but I think I shook them off. Good. Now to business.’

‘You still want me to go to Hadrian’s Villa?’ Flaminius asked. ‘This Moesia memorandum you mentioned. You think it will explain why we’ve both been dismissed? Why we’re being followed wherever we go?’

‘I believe so,’ said Probus. ‘Yes, now that you have recovered from your previous mission, I want you to go to Tibur and obtain the document in question…’

‘I’m not being a slave again,’ Flaminius said firmly.

‘No one is asking you to pose as a slave,’ Probus told him. ‘You will receive help from one of my other agents. And once you are at the Tiburtine Villa, all that is required of you is that you meet a certain individual, at a certain time, in a certain place. There the exchange will be made, and then you must return to me in Rome.’

‘Agents, agents,’ Flaminius muttered. ‘You seem to have a full spy network all of your own.’

‘And why should I not?’

Flaminius shifted closer. ‘Because neither you nor I am working for the emperor any more,’ he hissed. ‘We’re on our own now. We no longer have the privileges of imperial agents, we’re private citizens. What right do we have to run spy rings or burgle imperial property?’

‘Do you not wish to know why both you and I were so peremptorily dismissed?’ asked Probus darkly. ‘I certainly do.’

Flaminius leaned back against the cool marble of the bench. ‘Of course I do,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘I want my job back, too, so if we can only find who it was who was responsible, neutralise them, and exonerate ourselves, I would be back in business, and you too. But how are we to achieve that? You, me, and this mysterious little gang of yours. Do you know what we are, ex-centurion Probus?’

‘Tell me, ex-tribune Flaminius,’ said Probus, gazing levelly at him.

Flaminius pounded the bench with his fist. ‘We’re a conspiracy.’

‘Is that so?’ said Probus, lifting an eyebrow.

Flaminius nodded. ‘A conspiracy as bad as any we’ve dealt with in the past. And we’re conspiring against the Commissary. You could even say we’re plotting against the emperor.’

‘Perhaps not something to announce in such loud, histrionic tones,’ said Probus, ‘on a spring morning in the gardens of Sallust. You might meet with undue attention. For your information, ex-tribune, we are not plotting against his imperial majesty.’

‘Then who in Hades are we plotting against?’

Probus looked away. ‘This is not a plot but a counterplot. We are plotting against… against whoever has been plotting against us. Against me. Yes, me. Someone whose schemes I came close to scotching, whose toes I have trod upon, has used his position of power and influence to remove me from my own. Who it is remains to be seen. Retrieve the memorandum and I will be better able to answer your question.’

Flaminius stared at him painfully, anxiety brimming in his eyes. At last he relaxed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do? Go to the villa, make the switch with your agent? Should be simple enough. I’ve infiltrated the Villa before. But tell me, if you’ve got a man on the inside, why do you need me to do your dirty work?’

Probus gave him a thin smile. ‘My agent is a slave, Minos by name, who serves in the Latin Library. I have been in correspondence with him for some time. In code, of course. He tells me he has located the specific document mentioned in the Dacia dossier. Would that he were able to bring it to me, he would gladly, but since he is a slave, he is unable leave the library. However, he can meet you—clandestinely, of course—and hand over the memorandum for you to bring back to me. You will meet him on the calends of April, in the Latin Library, at the second watch of the night.’

‘Why is an imperial slave working for you?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘Why should anyone work for you? Are you paying him? Because you’re certainly not paying me.’

‘I’m providing you with food and lodgings,’ said Probus. ‘No, I am not paying Minos. But he is aware that I will be able to speak in his favour and secure his liberty when the time comes. He wishes to return to Cilicia, where he entered slavery, and there I believe he hopes to make contact with a female of his former acquaintance.’

‘Is that how you manipulate all your agents?’ Flaminius frowned. ‘You’ve never offered anything like that to me.’

‘Should I need to?’ asked Probus. ‘Surely what motivates you is your sense of duty to Rome.’

Flaminius digested this but found it unpalatable. Putting it to one side for the moment, he said, ‘Getting into the Villa will be easy, but it’s miles away. How will I get there? Will you provide a horse, or do I have to walk all the way?’

‘Neither,’ said Probus. ‘You will be provided both with a means of transport and a skilled companion. They have stepped up security in the Villa since you foiled that assassination attempt several years ago. Getting in will not be easy. However, your companion is skilled in these matters, and knows how to gain access without attracting the attention of the Praetorians currently stationed there. You, on the other hand, know the Villa, and will be able to find your way to the Latin Library.’

‘Another civilian agent,’ Flaminius commented. ‘I suppose I’ll meet him. What is he, a professional thief? Who is living at the Villa right now? Not the emperor, he’s still in the imperial palace.’

‘Vibia Sabina is currently the main incumbent,’ Probus told him. ‘Hence the Praetorians. They are not guarding her so much as keeping her under house arrest.’

‘The empress?’ said Flaminius. ‘Is madam still doing the rounds?’

He remembered the events that had led Hadrian’s wife to being “removed from public life” as the emperor had put it: an affair with a Praetorian prefect was one thing, but sleeping with the chief librarian at the same time (literally at the same time? Flaminius didn’t know, but the two were good friends) was going a bit too far. And as for plotting to restore the Republic, well, that was too much even for the most patient of emperors.

Probus shook his head. ‘In fact Sabina has never been accorded the title of empress,’ he said, ‘although certain loose tongued people speak of her as such. She is not “doing the rounds”, as you so vulgarly put it. She is currently, unofficially, under lock and key, a captive, albeit one whose days are spent in luxury and dissipation. The Villa is effectively her prison, and it is well guarded.’

Flaminius sighed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So I’m breaking into a prison, am I?’

‘Entirely incidentally, yes,’ said Probus. ‘Not that it is the Villa’s sole use. Sometimes Sabina is moved to other golden cages, particularly when the emperor wishes to entertain his friends there. A great deal of building work has been carried out since you were last there, too. You will hardly recognise the place.’

‘And you’re certain that this document is the clue we need?’ Flaminius asked, and Probus nodded. ‘But you’re not willing to be more explicit?’ Wordlessly Probus shook his head. He was staring out across the pond again. ‘You don’t want to tell me who or what we’re up against, or why this memorandum will help us identify them?’

Probus looked irritably at Flaminius. ‘The less you know, the less you can betray under coercion,’ he said. ‘You’ve worked for the Commissary long enough to know that.’ He looked away.

‘But I no longer work for the Commissary, do I?’ When this did not evoke a response, Flaminius exhaled noisily. ‘Very well, I’ll do it. The Latin Library, on the calends of April? That’s two days from now. Plenty of time to get there and get inside and meet your man.’ He frowned. ‘But how will I know if he’s the right one? How will I identify him?’

‘He will identify himself,’ said Probus. ‘He wears an iron ring with a blank iron seal. But the seal is reversible, and on the other side it is silvered, and bears a tiny emblem of Feronia, goddess of freed slaves.’

‘Nicely symbolic,’ Flaminius commented. ‘But when do I start? When do I meet my companion? And who is he? Surely I need to know that much.’

Probus gave him an impatient look. ‘When you leave the Gardens,’ he said, ‘you will see a familiar looking litter borne by two familiar slaves. Get into the litter and your journey will have begun. As for your companion, you have already met her.’

He rose. ‘May the gods go with you,’ he said solemnly, and departed without another word.

Flaminius went to the arch and peered out, following the short, squat figure as it hurried over the bridge and crossed the lawn beyond, vanishing into the trees. He was about to look away when another man appeared from behind the ilex on the far side of the pond. A tall, spare man wearing a hooded cloak despite the spring sunshine.

This sinister figure hurried after Probus.

Flaminius contemplated following them. Was this an enemy agent on Probus’ tail? Or was it a member of Probus’ civilian spy ring? He knew too little to be certain. But Probus could look after himself. Flaminius had his orders, and he had been in the legions long enough to know his duty.

He hurried over the bridge and crossed the lawn in the opposite direction. Now the scents and sights of the Gardens of Sallust did nothing to calm his jangling nerves. Every time he saw a trysting couple, or a slave girl accompanying her mistress’s children, he felt sure they were spying on him. Perhaps some of them were. But he reached the gates without further event, and without seeing any sign of Probus.

He mulled over the man’s words. The Tiburtine Villa was currently the prison of the emperor’s wife? He remembered the encounter he had had with Vibia Sabina while undercover in the Praetorians. Being married to a man like Hadrian, who had kept a string of catamites long before he met this Antinous, could hardly be much fun. No wonder she had dallied with soldiers and scholars alike. Not that it had been quite as simple as that. Vibia Sabina had been on the fringes of a conspiracy, a minor political matter with which she had also relieved her boredom. She had even gone as far as to attempt to seduce Flaminius. He wondered how many of her gaolers she had successfully seduced.

She represented an unexpected complication. But he would deal with her later, if he had to.

As he left the Gardens, he looked around for a waiting litter. Several of them stood in the street outside, held by patiently waiting slaves. Only one looked familiar. He strode right up to the rose pink litter, whisked aside the curtains, and stepped boldly inside.

‘Rhoda,’ he said to the woman who sat quietly within, ‘we meet again.’

But it was not Rhoda who looked up at him as he sat down on the cushions. This was someone else. Younger. Slimmer.

And much more pleasing to the eye.

—10—

‘Oh!’ said Flaminius. ‘Terribly sorry... Wrong litter!’

As he began to climb back out again, a slim hand seized his wrist and gently pulled him down onto the cushions.

‘You’ve got the right one, you dolt,’ the girl said in a familiar voice. The husky tones of an older woman. A waft of rose perfume made him sneeze. He stared searchingly into her face. The eyes… they were familiar too. But nothing else was.

‘Rhoda?’ he croaked.

She gave him a grim look, then tapped peremptorily on the framework of the litter. At that signal, the litter was lifted and began to move with a gentle lurching motion as the two slaves carried them away. The young woman tugged the curtain down so they were concealed from outside and gazed at Flaminius. She broke out into a tinkling little laugh.

‘Good to see my skills of disguise are working,’ she said.

‘You really are Rhoda?’ he asked in wonder. She dipped her head quickly. ‘But…’ he added. ‘You’ve changed. I mean, you’re unrecognisable! And younger.’

‘This is the real me,’ she told him pertly. ‘The Rhoda you met before, she’s an ageing courtesan. She’s put on weight, there are crow’s feet appearing round her eyes. Her lush charms are appreciated chiefly by the older men she frequents. She can twist them round her little finger, and often does.’ Rhoda spread out the fingers of one be-ringed hand to indicate her opulent surroundings. ‘It provides all this,’ she added.

‘Men will pay you more if they think you’re twice your real age?’ Flaminius was astounded by the revelation.

She nodded. ‘Rich, influential men,’ she said. ‘What they lack in young men’s virility they make up for in other ways. Some cosmetics, histrionic skills… it all makes me irresistible. A slip of a thing like I am would not get so far in the trade. They take me more seriously as the Rhoda you met.’

‘You’re an old man’s courtesan,’ Flaminius said.

‘I’m a thief, dear,’ she contradicted him. ‘A thief with influence. That’s how I came to the attention of our mutual friend.’

‘A thief,’ Flaminius mused. It was what he’d been expecting, of course. ‘And you’ll be helping me get into the Villa?’

She placed a finger to his lips. ‘Not so loud,’ she said, jerking her head to indicate the world outside. They seemed to be making their way across a bridge over the river, but the sound of passing pedestrians and wheeled traffic was audible. ‘Anyone might hear. From now on, we talk of… the arena.’

Flaminius grunted. ‘And what an arena it’ll be.’

They halted soon after, and Rhoda ushered him outside. He stepped from the litter to find himself facing a four horse carriage.

During the ensuing journey, which took them straight across Rome and out the other side, on the Tiburtine Way with the Apennines a blue smudge on the horizon, Rhoda told him what had been planned.

‘We’ll reach the arena by dusk,’ she told him. ‘The meeting with your combatant is scheduled for the evening afterwards.’ Evidently she meant the slave, Minos, but it seemed that the code word she had chosen was ill omened. He wasn’t looking forward to any fighting on this trip. He didn’t want to draw attention to his presence. ‘Our mutual friend suggests we gain entrance to the arena at midnight, and establish a base camp as close to the location as possible.’

Flaminius looked uneasy. ‘Stay there for a whole day?’ he said. ‘We’ll risk being found.’

She looked mysterious. ‘I’ll make sure we’re not, sweetheart,’ she assured him. ‘Our mutual friend has not taken on the best thief in Rome for nothing.’

Flaminius studied her in silence as the carriage, driven by one of the litter bearers, rattled along the Tiburtine Way. Rhoda looked at least five years younger than him, and this was indeed supposedly her real age. He’d been full of brag and boastfulness at that age himself, though Probus had paid it little heed, focusing on his potential to be moulded as an agent rather than listening to his wild words. Flaminius couldn’t believe that this girl could be what she claimed to be. Was Probus falling into his dotage at last? It would explain a lot.

He leaned back against the seat and gazed out at the passing countryside.

As the sun began to descend over the rolling fields, they passed the entrance to the driveway that led up to the Tiburtine Villa. From his last visit Flaminius remembered the laurel avenue that flanked the drive. The broad strip of road was dusty and the shadows were long.

Up ahead, the roofs of Tibur were visible against the blue grey backdrop of the mountains. ‘Where are we going?’ Flaminius said in alarm as they continued along the road towards the town. ‘We’ve gone past the Villa.’

Rhoda gave a rich, vibrant chuckle and her eyes flared, catlike. ‘You don’t expect us to gallop straight up the emperor’s private drive, do you? We’ll pull off the road a quarter of a mile further on, then continue on foot.’

‘And the driver?’

‘He will go to Tibur and spend the time at an inn. He will be waiting for us tomorrow night.’

Not long after, both were crouched in the bushes off the road as the carriage rattled away in the direction of the nearby town. After a moment Rhoda rose and led Flaminius through the bushes, down a path alongside a field of lowing cattle, and into the gloom of a stand of trees. Soon they were facing a high wall.

‘Beyond this,’ Rhoda whispered, peering out from behind a tree, ‘lie the Villa grounds.’

Flaminius did not remember any comparable perimeter wall from his last visit. ‘Is it guarded?’

Rhoda held a finger to her lips and gestured to him for quiet. Flaminius caught the clink-clink of arms and armour, and then the crunch of booted feet on gravel. Rhoda, who was carrying a kitbag like the one Flaminius also bore, produced a short bow and a quiver.

Probus had said security had been stepped up. If the Villa was in use as a prison, even for such a distinguished captive, the patrols would be many and frequent even in the darkest midnight. His mind travelled back to his youth in the legions, and night patrol. How he had hated it, even on horseback. Not that the Italian night was as cold as it had been in Britain.

At a rustle of disturbed leaves, he looked up to see no sign of Rhoda. The girl had gone. Flaminius panicked. Had she abandoned him? Betrayed him? Probus had certainly better pick his agents with better care in the future, if there was a future. It was to be expected if they consorted with thieves. How could they hope to rely on such folk?

A star twinkled through the trees. Red in colour. Was it Mars? But surely the war god’s planet was in the west tonight, not the south.

He turned to go. He’d tell Probus what had happened, suggest he used more reliable operatives in future. The entire mission was compromised.

He halted, as the night breeze brought a whiff of smoke to his nostrils. Looking back, he noticed a ruddy glow from beyond the wall. Some way away, something was burning.

He stiffened. Maybe this freak accident would provide him with the distraction he needed to get into the Villa without being seen. He could take shelter in the slave tunnels, maybe, or one of the less frequented garden temples, then move on to the Latin Library after the next sunset…

The leaves rustled again, and abruptly Rhoda was at his side. She wore no scent now, and seemed to blend into her environment like a shadow. Unstringing the bow she carried, she placed it in her kitbag.

‘Where did you go?’

Hearing his voice, she glanced up at him, eyes wide in the gloom. ‘To stage a distraction, my sweet,’ she said. ‘Surely that was the plan.’

The fire was raging now, and running footsteps and raised voices were audible.

‘You set fire to something?’ he asked. ‘How? How did you get over the wall without being seen?’

‘Why, I used a fire arrow,’ she said impatiently. ‘I didn’t cross the wall. We had better climb it while the guards are occupied. After that, you will have to guide us. Getting us in is my job. Once that’s done, my only other responsibility is to keep you out of trouble.’

She would have quite a job on her hands.

Flaminius went to the wall and shinned up it. Peering over the top, he saw a wide lawn that stretched away towards a stand of trees amongst which he could see tall buildings. The fire was blazing some distance to the right, and dark running figures were silhouetted against its glow.

He straddled the wall, turned, hung by his hands a moment, and dropped to the path below. There was a hiss of gravel beneath his sandaled feet. He looked up to see another dark shape, that of Rhoda, coming over the wall. She dropped down beside him.

‘Where to now?’ she hissed. ‘I’ve got you in, lover boy. Now we need somewhere to lie low until it’s time to meet our man.’

Flaminius indicated the trees and the buildings beyond. If she expected him to have an expert knowledge about the site, having last visited it three years ago, she would be disappointed.

‘There’s a lot of open ground between here and there,’ she said critically. The fire’s glow was diminishing now, as the dark figures surrounding it seemed to have brought out some kind of squirter. Black smoke blotted out the stars.

Flaminius snatched her slim hand. ‘Hurry up, then,’ he said, and led her at a run across the well-tended lawn.

They reached the trees without being seen, and took cover in the undergrowth. A gravel path wound its way through the wood towards a domed building on the far side of another lawn. A statue of a faun stood proud on a plinth in the middle of the sward.

‘Where are we, lover boy?’ Rhoda whispered in his ear.

Flaminius cleared his throat. ‘Things have changed since I was last here,’ he said. ‘But I remember well that there is a small amphitheatre in this vicinity. Next to it is a large plaza called the Golden Square, surrounded by buildings, with a short canal in the middle of a garden. South west of it is the palace, with the Latin Library southwest again…’

‘Where can we hide?’ she interrupted him.

Flaminius looked uncomfortably at her. ‘That depends on which areas are the least frequented,’ he said. He looked to the western sky. Only a dim glow was visible. ‘Seems like they’ve got the fire under control,’ he added. ‘We’d better go to ground as soon as we can.’

‘But where?’ she murmured.

‘A tunnel is accessible from one of the porticos,’ Flaminius said. ‘It runs north east for a long way into Hadrian’s underworld.’

‘His underworld?’ she said with a dark shudder. ‘What’s that, honey?’

‘The Tiburtine Villa is a huge model of the world,’ said Flaminius. ‘Parts of it are named for imperial provinces, or places within them. Out of a sense of completeness, Hadrian included a Hades.’ He grinned at her in the gloom. ‘It’s a labyrinth of tunnels running under the Villa grounds, used by the slaves so they can get about without being seen.’

‘There will be slaves down there, ducky?’ she said doubtfully. ‘They might see us, and report us! Have you ever been down in these tunnels?’

‘More than once,’ he told her. ‘They’re deserted for the most part. The slave quarters are to the south. They use the tunnels only when they have to, and we would be able to hear them coming long before we saw them. Or they saw us.’

‘Then let’s hurry,’ she said, ‘before the guards start searching for whoever started that fire. My fire arrow must have hit a wood store, going by the length of time it’s been burning, but it’s dimming down now…’

They crossed the lawn, looking about themselves furtively. Lights were visible from the palace some distance away, but the buildings round the Golden Square showed no signs of life, except for one on the far left. They went round the small amphitheatre where Flaminius had once narrowly missed losing his life to a stray lion[10], and came to a pillared portico. The tunnel could be accessed from a trapdoor in the right hand corner, but they would have to enter the portico from further up and head in that direction.

‘You stay here,’ Flaminius told her as they reached the arch that led into the gardens. ‘I’ll see if I can find the hatch, then come back for you.’ As he hurried down a gravel path towards the corner, she crouched in the shadows of a laurel bush.

He heard the tramp of booted feet from up ahead of him. Ducking into the cover of another laurel, he watched as a man in breastplate and greaves, wearing the red crested helmet of a Praetorian, marched down the path towards Rhoda’s hiding place.

Flaminius waited until the man had passed, then stepped out silently. He wrapped his arm round the man’s neck and then, as the Praetorian began to struggle, calmly took his head between his hands and turned it first one way, then the next. There was a grisly clicking sound and at once the Praetorian was a dead weight in his arms.

As he was lowering the corpse to the ground the gravel sprayed and he looked up to see Rhoda approaching at speed.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed. ‘Who’s that?’

‘We didn’t have a chance to get acquainted.’ Flaminius hauled the corpse up by its armpits and dragged it to one side of the path. ‘He was heading in your direction.’

‘Yes,’ said Rhoda, as more booted feet could be heard from the direction of the portico, ‘and he wasn’t the only one. More are coming. We’ve got to get rid of him. If they find this body…’

‘Help me with him,’ Flaminius urged her. With an effort, they dragged the corpse through the bushes to the side of the canal. Flaminius unbuckled the sword belt and strapped it on. ‘The armour will weigh him down,’ he added, lowering the body gently into the waters. As they let go, it sank silently amidst the lily pads. Bubbles came up, but the dead Praetorian did not bob back into sight.

‘This way,’ whispered Flaminius.

As booted feet crunched on the gravel elsewhere in the garden, he led Rhoda like a shadow in search of the tunnel entrance.

—11—

The footsteps drew closer. The two fugitives raced silently through the shadow-hung colonnade. A door led into a small, dark room. Flaminius crouched down in the middle of it. There was no other way out.

‘Those guards are coming closer,’ hissed Rhoda. ‘What are you doing, sweetheart?’

Flaminius was feeling around on the cold marble floor. At last his groping fingers found what he was searching for. A catch came free, a rectangle sprang up bringing with it cold dank air as of a tomb, and a well of blackness was revealed in the middle of the floor.

‘Down here,’ he said, gesturing at the darkness. ‘You go first.’

Cursing, Rhoda hitched up the skirts of her tunic and lowered herself into the shaft, clinging onto the side as her feet scrabbled round for a foothold. The tramp of booted feet was very loud from the portico. Flaminius heard barked orders.

‘Where’s Lepidus?’ came a definite centurion’s growl. ‘He should have been patrolling this stretch.’

‘Maybe he went to help put out the fire,’ suggested another voice.

‘He had no such orders,’ growled the centurion. ‘When I find him, I’ll flay the skin off his back for dereliction…’

Flaminius had heard enough. He followed Rhoda into the dark shaft, locating the rungs carved in the side and quietly pulling the hatch down behind him as he went. After a short descent, he collided with a soft yet firm form, which complained loudly.

‘Sssh,’ he told Rhoda, hanging from one rung. ‘They’ll hear us and come looking.’

‘You mean they know about the tunnels?’ Rhoda’s voice filtered up from the gloom.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘They are not a secret. Leastways, not to those in the know. Hadrian built it as his underworld, like I told you. But from what I heard, they don’t have any clue that we’re here.’ He heard Rhoda start descending again. ‘Although what they’ll think if they find friend Lepidus at the bottom of that canal, I don’t know…’

The shaft opened out as he descended, and he saw by a dim glimmer of light that they had reached the tunnel. Rhoda was already at the bottom of the shaft, and she stood there in silence, her eyes glittering as she looked up at him.

‘Where is that light coming from?’ she asked darkly as he joined her.

Flaminius looked about. The tunnel led a long way eastward and westward, running under the portico to begin with, although it went much further across the Villa grounds.

‘These tunnels run for miles,’ he told her. ‘It’s like a subterranean city. Nobody knows the full extent of it, maybe not even the slaves who dug them. Maybe Hadrian does, maybe not even him. But in places they link with the world above. Apart from shafts like this one, there are other…’ He came to a halt.

‘You don’t really know,’ she said accusingly. ‘Do you?’

‘I told you, nobody does,’ he said. ‘In some places the tunnels are so wide you could drive a cart down them. Others are little more than crawlspaces… But it doesn’t matter. All we have to do is find a place where we won’t be troubled by slaves, and stay there until it’s time to meet Probus’ agent.’

All the same, he was curious about the glimmer of light. It didn’t fit with anything he had heard about this tunnel. Although the source of the faint illumination lay in entirely the wrong direction for the Latin Library, he decided to investigate.

‘Come on,’ he said, and led Rhoda down the cold, murky tunnel.

‘Do the slaves blunder about in the darkness like this?’ she demanded, after stumbling and almost wrenching her foot.

‘They carry torches,’ said Flaminius. ‘But we can’t, or we’d draw attention to ourselves. Look. That light is getting a bit brighter…’

He made his way forwards, with Rhoda hobbling along behind him. Slowly the sides of the tunnel and the overarching roof grew clearer in the ruddy yellow glow. It looked like it might be lantern light. But though Flaminius halted several times and listened, he heard no sign of approaching footsteps. Nor was the light moving, as it would be if it was a lantern carried by some errant slave. It remained in the same place, a long way ahead of them, down the tunnel. It was only their faltering approach that caused it to grow brighter, closer. Then it dimmed a little, but remained.

Nervously, Flaminius approached, stepping as quietly as he could. Despite her sore ankle, Rhoda walked like in complete silence, so quiet Flaminius looked back more than once to make sure she was still there. She was as quiet as a predatory cat. This would hardly be the first time a thief like her would need to move undetected. Although from what she had said her thefts were the result of gulling doting old senators…

Flaminius stopped short, hearing voices from ahead.

‘…some kind of alarm up top,’ a deep, masculine voice was saying. ‘A woodpile ablaze. They had a time of it, putting it out, those guards.’

‘His imperial majesty would not be happy if his wife went up in smoke,’ said a lighter, but still male, voice. ‘Or his gardens, though he’d miss those the more.’

‘Enough of your seditious comments, friend,’ said the deeper voice. ‘You just keep an eye out. What news?’

‘Subject still under surveillance. Listened to a slave reciting Ovid’s Amores, spoke with a Praetorian tribune—couldn’t hear what was said, but subject seemed agitated. Then to bed.’

‘Ovid, eh? Naughty,’ came the first voice. ‘She’d better keep her mind off suchlike diversions. To bed—alone, I hope.’

‘Alone, but had trouble sleeping. Subject rose and paced about more than once. Now sleeping like a babe. Only one lantern still burning. Not much to see.’

Flaminius drew closer. Round a slight bend in the tunnel he saw the source of the light—a narrow, horizontal opening in the right hand wall which led upwards at an angle. The gleam it shed was not as bright as it had seemed from round the corner. Only one lantern still burning, one of the voices had said…

Rhoda drew up behind him, brushing against his flank as she too peered round the corner. She looked up at him. Flaminius motioned for her to keep back.

Two burly men sat cross legged before the horizontal shaft, peering upwards, the dim gleam illuminating their faces. They wore green tunics, military belts and military boots, but they were not the overdressed, overly ceremonial Praetorians. These looked like tough, hard bitten legionaries. Centurions, probably—both were middle aged. One turned slightly and the light from the shaft flashed on a brooch he was wearing. A brooch in the form of a lance-head.

Flaminius dodged back.

Rhoda looked at him questioningly. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: ‘Imperial agents. They’ve got somebody under surveillance up there.’

‘Can we get round them?’ Rhoda whispered in return.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on them.’

‘Who do you think they’re spying on?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘We must be right under the nymphaeum on one side of the Golden Square,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know there were sleeping quarters there, but it seems there are.’

‘And whoever is sleeping there,’ said Rhoda, ‘is being spied upon.’

Flaminius peered round the corner again. There were a few too many spies in this Villa right at the moment.

He felt a strange taste in his mouth, watching these Commissary men. He knew what surveillance duty was like—deadly dull, most of the time. Very occasionally, something happened—and that was worse. Little did these agents know that they were under surveillance themselves! Very lax. If they’d been his men, he would have insisted they surveyed the surrounding area regularly. Was this what the Commissary was coming to now that Probus had been ousted?

He settled down to watch and wait.

Sometime later—time was difficult to judge down in this bone chilling subterranean darkness—the bigger Commissary centurion stretched and yawned.

‘She’s asleep,’ he said. ‘Not up to any naughtiness. We’ll return to base and Primus and Tempus can take over in the morning.’

He rose to his feet, followed by his companion, lit a lantern and started marching towards the corner where Flaminius stood. In that instant of full illumination, Flaminius saw a long, jagged scar running from the left eye of the first man, right down to his jawbone.

With a stifled gasp, Rhoda seized his arm.

‘Quick,’ she hissed.

Together they fled noiselessly down the dark tunnel. For the second time that night they ran from the pounding of booted feet.

At last they came to the shaft.

‘Up here,’ panted Flaminius.

Nimbly Rhoda swung herself into the shaft and began ascending the slippery stone rungs. Flaminius looked back as the footsteps grew louder. If there had been only one of the Commissary centurions, he might have served him as he had served Lepidus upstairs; serve them right for their negligence. But he didn’t want to leave a trail of corpses behind him, and besides, he could kill one maybe, but not two, not without a fight and that would draw unwanted attention. He followed Rhoda.

Halfway, the tunnel below was flooded with light. Flaminius clung to one side, and peered back down. Were the Praetorians coming this way?

The crowns of two heads bobbed by, the lantern glowing beside one; then they vanished up the tunnel, taking the lantern with them. As darkness fell, Flaminius looked up to see Rhoda’s anxious face.

‘They’ve gone,’ she whispered.

The shaft magnified her words and they seemed to boom deafeningly in Flaminius’ ears. He gestured wildly at her to keep quiet, and cocked his head to listen. Surely the imperial agents had heard. But all that was audible was the distant thump of booted feet.

He wondered where their base was. Did the Praetorians know about their presence here? If the new Chief was anything like Probus, probably not. But who had they been spying on?

As if she could hear his thoughts, Rhoda said, ‘Who is sleeping in that chamber above?’

Flaminius gestured to her to follow and descended the shaft again. At the bottom, he found the darkness almost impenetrable. Only the slightest gleam was visible from the far end of the passage. Now the imperial agents had gone, and the sleeping chamber above lay in darkness, this stretch of Hadrian’s underworld was as black as the reign of Chaos. But still there came a gleam.

Together they stole down the tunnel, their passage easier now that they knew the ground better. They turned the corner and the horizontal shaft was ahead of them.

Flaminius approached, Rhoda hanging back, peering up and down the tunnel for signs of anyone else, slave or imperial agent. But all was silent and as dark as the blackest midnight. For all she knew, it was midnight by now. She trotted to join Flaminius.

‘What do you see?’ she purred.

He glanced up from where he sat, and gestured her to join him. She sat down uncomfortably and looked up the shaft.

It ran a long way before it showed any kind of light. But at the far end was a chamber. Very little of it was visible, but a lantern could be seen burning. It must be an antechamber of the nymphaeum. She could hear a gurgling of some fountain, far off. But this was no kind of shrine. It was, as she had surmised, a sleeping chamber. In one corner stood a bed, hung round with veils, upon which lay a recumbent form. On the far side of the chamber was a solid looking door.

Flaminius grinned at Rhoda. ‘I think I can guess who is kept confined in here,’ he said. ‘I recognise the place. It’s a building attached to the nymphaeum. Presumably intended for the priests of the shrine. But now it’s used for other purposes.’

‘Do you think that it is the empress in that bed?’ Rhoda asked.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Technically, not the empress,’ he said. ‘Sabina was never given that title officially. And now that she’s a prisoner, and will never see her imperial husband again, she can hardly be regarded as any kind of empress.’

He looked up suddenly as the door swung open without a sound. A figure crept inside, closing the door silently behind it. At the same time the veils round the bed rustled.

‘I thought you would never get here,’ trilled a soft feminine voice. ‘Come and join me.’

‘I would have come sooner,’ drawled the newcomer in a man’s voice, ‘but I had to coordinate the fire fighting.’

‘Oh, you brave, foolish man,’ she said. ‘You have kept us safe in our beds. But you know that you should never come too soon. It is only recently that my spies have sought their own beds, thinking I was asleep.’

The figure passed by the single lamp, and for an instant the face of a young man in Praetorian uniform appeared. He hovered nervously by the foot of the bed until the woman came to join him. She wore nothing but a diaphanous sleeping gown. Gently she took his hand.

‘Tribune Cotta,’ she said formally. ‘Join me in my bed. That is an imperial command.’

‘Madam,’ said the Praetorian tribune. ‘With respect, this is hardly fitting. I am your husband’s man. I am here to do your wishes, of course, but….’

‘Then do my wishes,’ she said emphatically with a gusty sigh, slipping her hands round his armoured back and drawing him close. His lips found hers and they kissed long and lingeringly. It was the tribune who broke it off.

‘If I was found here,’ he gasped, though he was stripping his armour from him as he spoke.

‘You won’t be,’ she assured him. ‘You must go before daybreak, and return the keys to the locker. Tomorrow does not matter. Only now is of any significance. I have been so lonely... Come and share my loneliness with me!’

She drew him back into the shadows of the bed and they vanished from sight.

Chuckling, Flaminius peered upwards. Rhoda struck his elbow with the back of her hand. ‘Don’t watch!’ she told him as he looked inquiringly at him. ‘That’s none of your affair.’

‘Sabina’s affairs may be none of mine,’ he said, ‘but all intelligence is good intelligence, or hasn’t Probus told you that yet? This could be of immense importance.’

‘That a poor, lonely, imprisoned woman, whose husband neglects her, finds happiness in the arms of strapping young Praetorians?’ Rhoda said. ‘That’s between her and her husband, not that he should care. All that matters to the emperor is avoiding scandal. This has nothing to do with our mission, so keep your dirty little eyes to yourself. You don’t want to end up like Actaeon, do you?’

‘Actaeon spied upon Diana,’ Flaminius told her. ‘Diana is a virgin. Sabina most emphatically is not.’ He recalled his own brief encounter with her three years earlier. ‘Besides, I think I know the tribune. Knew him, anyway. Aulus Fabricius Cotta, the wretch. So this is what he’s stooping to, these days… Very well, this may be of no significance—although the fact that the Commissary is keeping her under surveillance could be important. In the meantime, we need to find somewhere we can hide until we can meet Minos in the Latin Library.’ He pointed back up the tunnel. ‘I suggest we go in this direction.’

—12—

Soon it was too dark to see. This time it was Flaminius’ turn to stumble over a snag in the rocky floor, and only a wild grab at the rough stone wall saved him from landing flat on his face.

‘We need some kind of light,’ Rhoda insisted.

‘What if it’s seen?’

Flaminius leaned against the wall for support and sucked at his sore fingers. A shelf ran along it and here he rested his arms so they were stretched out like those of a crucified convict.

‘Seen?’ she asked, her voice echoing weirdly in the pitch blackness. ‘No one is down here to see it. There are no slaves here.’

‘There will be,’ said Flaminius with certainty, ‘when morning comes. We can’t stay here.’

‘No one is talking about staying here very long, ducky,’ said Rhoda. ‘But wherever we’re going, we need to be able to see what we’re doing. I have flint and tinder in my kitbag. All we need is something to use as a torch.’

Flaminius’ groping fingers slid along the shelf in the wall, brushing against a rough shape of baked clay. It sloshed slightly. He looked up blindly in the darkness.

‘Come over here,’ he hissed. ‘Careful,’ he added, as he heard her faltering approach. ‘This floor is very rough. Good,’ he added, as he heard her come to a stop only a short way from him. ‘Strike your flint.’

He heard the chinking of steel on flint and sparks flared in the darkness. Light burgeoned as she blew at the rotten wood she held in her hand. Sparks ignited, turned to flame, revealing her face intent on the operation. They also exposed the tunnel, the rough, knobby floor, the vaulted roof, the shelf… Flaminius had found a terracotta lamp that had been left here by who knew what slave.

Flaminius picked it up and touched the wick to Rhoda’s tinder. The wick flared, and the light grew, revealing the tunnel stretching away in either direction.

Rhoda dropped the flaming tinder on the floor and stamped it out. Returning her flint and tinder to her bag, she muttered, ‘Now we can see what we’re doing.’

‘We’d better find somewhere we can hide during the day,’ said Flaminius. ‘It will be a long time before our assignation with Minos.’

They traversed the rock walled gallery for some time without seeing any sign of any alcove or cubbyhole or anywhere they might seek refuge. Although these tunnels were deserted at this time of night, Flaminius knew that in the day they would be thronged with slaves busying themselves about the affairs of the Villa. Sabina might be a prisoner here, but she would by no means be the only inhabitant. And the slaves would be kept busy. They needed to avoid detection.

At last they found another shaft. ‘Shall we go up here?’ asked Rhoda, looking upwards. ‘We’ve found nowhere to hide down here.’

‘We’ll surely not find anywhere to hide aboveground,’ said Flaminius. But he started climbing.

The trapdoor at the top opened out into a silent, shadow hung room of veined marble, where busts of emperors peered down censoriously from all four corners. A quick reconnaissance showed that they had come out in a newly built pavilion that stood at one end of the gardens known as the Vale of Tempe, named after the famous valley in Greece.

‘Not far from the Latin Library,’ Flaminius whispered triumphantly. ‘It looks as if this is intended as some kind of meeting place for visitors to the Villa. Legitimate visitors, that is,’ he added with a wry grin. ‘But it’s deserted at the moment.’

Searching round they found a small chamber under a staircase. They barricaded themselves in here, and spent the rest of the night sleeping in turns, with one of them keeping watch.

The following morning dawned while Flaminius was on watch. He had heard the sound of patrols passing in the night, but the Villa seemed to have quietened down since the dramas of their arrival. The smell of smoke still hung rank in the air, and it was stronger here. Hearing the incongruous sound of laughing voices, he ascended the steps.

They took him into the Hostelry, a two storey building with several lavish guestrooms—all unoccupied at the moment—arranged around a central hall. Crossing to another flight of steps, he found a window overlooking a large courtyard.

To one side stood the palace, incorporating the old villa that had stood here for hundreds of years with more recent construction. To the other stood two buildings that must be the Greek and Latin libraries.

It was a quiet day, it seemed, as he peered outside. Birds were singing. Deer cropped the grass in the distance. Down in the courtyard, laughing girls were playing a game of ball. Watching their sport indulgently from an arbour was a woman who Flaminius recognised with a shock as Sabina herself. His eyes narrowed as he saw armoured Praetorians by the exits from the courtyard. By day Sabina was free to roam about the grounds, it seemed, but the guards kept a discreet eye on her and her servants.

He returned to the alcove under the stairs and shook Rhoda awake.

‘Seems fairly quiet,’ he told her. ‘It’s a nice day, too. The sun is shining, the grass is green, and the spring flowers are blooming. Despite last night’s dramas, the empress and her handmaidens have been let out to sport in the gardens—under armed guard. The reek of smoke from your incendiary activities is all that mars a beautiful morning. There could be worse places to be on the run. Oh, and our destination is just on the far side of the Hostelry next door.’

‘So more by accident than design we’ve found where we were going,’ said Rhoda tartly. ‘I thought you knew your way around this place, honey cake.’

‘I’ve been here before,’ Flaminius corrected her. ‘But Hadrian has had a lot of work done since then. He must have had a man in.’

Again he recalled the momentous events of his last visit, which had amongst other matters resulted in Sabina’s house arrest. The emperor’s reaction to a plot against his own life had been remarkably mild. After a bloody beginning to his time in office, when rivals for the purple had been brutally assassinated in his name, Hadrian was loath to anger the Senate with further bloodshed. There were factions within that august body, in fact the very conspiracy Flaminius had encountered so often must be one of them, who would love to see him proved as bad a tyrant as any of his predecessors—so that one of their number could use it as an excuse to take his place. Besides, it was possible that he felt some regard for his wife, however loveless the marriage might have been.

He yawned.

‘You’d better get some sleep,’ said Rhoda critically. ‘We want to be alert and prepared tonight. I’ll keep watch...’ She broke off.

They both heard the tramp of footsteps from outside. Flaminius looked at Rhoda, the hair on his head seeming to quiver in its roots. Booted feet! Had the Praetorians followed them here? He loosened his stolen sword in its scabbard.

Rhoda put a hand on his arm.

‘Stay down,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t fight the entire Praetorian Guard.’

Grimacing, Flaminius peered out from the doorway. Two men entered. From his position he could see only their bare legs and sandaled feet.

‘Either Lepidus has deserted or there’s some other reason for his disappearance,’ one voice was saying.

‘Do you think this has got anything to do with that mysterious fire of last night?’ said another.

‘You could be right, centurion,’ said the first voice. ‘I’ve got men searching the grounds. The place is almost entirely deserted, except for our distinguished guest, her handmaidens, and a few hundred slaves, for the most part underground. Remember that there have been attempts to set her free in the past. Be ready for anything.’

‘Should we search this place, sir?’

‘Leave that to the guards,’ said the first voice. ‘We’ll return to the barracks and report.’

The two men marched up the steps and vanished into the Hostelry.

It had been a close thing, but now the place would be crawling with Praetorians. Flaminius and Rhoda would have to lie low until the second watch of the night.

Sustaining themselves with the rations they had brought with them, they lay all day in the gloom of the cubbyhole, sleeping in turns, keeping ears open for the sound of approach. On two separate occasions patrols of suspicious Praetorians passed close by, but no one investigated the building closely. Both Rhoda and Flaminius had succeeded in stirring them up, but it had been unavoidable. Her trick had got them in the Villa, and he had had no choice but to kill the Praetorian called Lepidus. If they were found, they would have a lot of explaining to do.

But it was not that which troubled Flaminius as he lay in the stifling gloom, trying to sleep. It was the presence of Commissary agents in the tunnels. Were they spying on Sabina at the emperor’s orders? If so, it was a criticism of them that the object of their surveillance was aware of their presence. And seemingly fooling them with studied ease. He wondered who it was who had attempted to free Sabina from her opulent prison, and to what object.

Night fell at last, to Flaminius’ relief. The waiting had been worse torture than anything the interrogation division could employ. Spending a day cooped up with an attractive girl would have sounded quite delightful to his younger self, but he was clearly becoming a responsible citizen in his old age, since his thoughts—unlike those of Sabina—did not tend in the direction of lust, even once. Not even with Rhoda’s soft, firm thigh pressed against his own. He wanted to get the document from Minos and get safety back to Rome and Probus. What might happen afterwards remained to be seen, but if they could learn how and why they had been dismissed, they might be able to do something about their situation.

Flaminius rose and stretched. It was silent outside, with only a splash of moonlight and a speckling of starlight illuminating the lawns and groves and temples. Rhoda looked up from where she had been lying, curled up. With a snort, she got to her knees.

‘Do we go now?’ she asked.

Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘It’s not far from the second watch,’ he said. ‘The sun set some time ago. Besides, I want to scout out the area before we make the assignation. You’d better stay here. I’ll come back for you when everything is finished.’

‘Sweetheart…’ she said as he stepped out from under the stairs. He looked back.

‘What is it?’ he asked irritably.

She paused. ‘Be careful,’ she said at last. ‘Be careful!’

‘I will,’ he said, then turned on his heel and departed from the building.

It was cold outside. His breath steamed in the air as he halted in the cover of a colonnade, watching from behind a pillar as a patrol of Praetorians marched across the Vale of Tempe. When they vanished into the trees on the far side, he followed the wall round until he saw a low, two-storeyed building with a domed roof standing in the lea of the main palace. A flight of steps led up to a pair of arched doorways. Flaminius grinned harshly. This was it. His destination. The Latin Library! He glanced up at the glittering stars to calculate the time. Still a while before the second watch. But forewarned was forearmed. He would scout out the ground before making the meeting.

A small door opened in the wall to beside the main entrance. Flaminius ducked back into cover as a dark figure appeared in the doorway, then turned with a jingle of metal to lock the door behind him. It hurried away. Was this the slave Minos?

As the figure passed by Flaminius’ hiding place he glimpsed the bundle it carried under one arm. The starlight fell briefly upon its face and he saw a scar running from eye socket to jaw. This wasn’t the slave, but he recognised him from the tunnels. Then the imperial agent was gone, vanished round the corner of the building.

Flaminius hurried up the steps to the main entrance.

Both the double doors were also locked. That came as little surprise. Presumably the slave Minos intended to unlock them in time for the meeting. Undeterred, Flaminius followed the scar-faced man’s route round the line of the building to the right, soon coming to the pillars of a colonnade. Under this was the side wall of the Library, in which stood two small doors.

The air was cold, and the smell of smoke still hung over everything although it was less pungent. In the distance, from the far side of the Library, the crunch of marching feet on gravel remained audible. Flaminius could not wait around. As he stole up to the closest doorway, he caught the flash of moonlight on armour from the courtyard, then heard a challenge and response. Then more talking.

‘Intruders…’ he heard. ‘…found our mate floating in one of the canals… Went missing last night… the killer may have got away…’

Tensing, Flaminius listened. Another voice responded, one he recognised as that of the man with the scar.

‘Search the area. He may still be at large. He may kill again!’

‘Sir!’

The Praetorians were marching his way. They hadn’t seen him yet but they were going to notice him if he didn’t move quickly. He tried the door. It was also locked. He could force it but the noise would draw the guards straight to him.

He darted along the wall to the second door, and as the Praetorians reached the colonnade, he tried it also. Luckily, he was in shadows here and the guards showed no sign of having spotted him. He tried the door.

Fortune was smiling upon him this night! It opened silently into a large, unlit room. He shot inside and quietly closed the door behind him. The sound of marching feet grew louder… louder… louder… then died away as the guards marched past.

He wished now that he had brought the lantern with him, but he had left it with Rhoda. Its light would have helped, as long as it was not visible from outside.

A skylight let down a shaft of hazy moonlight and he moved in that direction. Halting in its gleam, he saw that this room was indeed part of a library. Rows upon rows upon rows of pigeon holes lined the walls, each containing a scroll identified by a classification tablet. Reading desks were dotted about the marble floor. But the place was silent, deserted. No sign of anyone. No sign of Minos.

A door to one side of the entrance led into a small office, and next to this stood a large arch, opening out into another chamber much like this one, its walls lined with pigeon holes. Everything lay in darkness, lit only by occasional shafts from skylights. Soundlessly, Flaminius explored the Library.

At the far end of the new chamber stood two arched doorways. They were locked, and from their position and size Flaminius guessed that they were the same ones he had tried from the outside, the main entrance at the head of the flight of steps. He turned and surveyed the chamber.

There were two alcoves on either side, but they led nowhere. Beyond them on either side were doors. The one on the right led out onto the colonnade, but it was the one he had previously discovered to be locked. He crossed over to the far left corner and tried the door. It creaked open so dramatically that Flaminius cringed into a crouch, looking desperately around in expectation of an entire cohort of Praetorians bursting in from every doorway.

Silence fell. There was no sign of anyone coming to investigate the noise, neither soldier nor slave. Flaminius stepped through the door.

It was a smaller room than the others, with another door in each of the walls. He tried the one in the left-hand wall and it opened into a small office with yet another door in the far wall. There was little to be seen: only a table, a scatter of documents upon its marble top, an unlit lamp, and lying on the mosaic floor in a pool of blood, a dead slave.

Flaminius knelt down. On the finger of one outstretched hand glinted an iron ring. With difficulty, he swivelled the seal round to reveal an image that was almost indiscernible in the darkness, but he was certain that it would show the goddess Feronia. This had to be Minos.

Beside the corpse lay a scroll case. It had been opened and the scroll was gone.

—13—

Rhoda was fretting.

Some time had passed since Flaminius left to scout out the library. He had been gone so long, it must be almost time for the meeting itself, although she had no way of knowing the hour in this gloom. What had happened to him? Had he fallen foul of some Praetorian patrol? He was no trained thief, even if he was supposed to be an imperial agent. What did a heavy booted soldier like him know about stealth?

She had grown up in the gutter, an orphan of the Argiletum. She had been stealing to survive as long as she could run away without getting caught—longer, in fact; acting and related activities had eked out a meagre subsistence in the meantime. She had had her ears boxed numerous times before she had mastered her craft, once even coming within a half-cubit of being caught by those dozy old men in the City Guard, before she was taken on by Magister Marcus of the College of Raptores, a crime ring operating out of the Argiletum, but with chapters throughout Rome. He had nurtured her skill, taught her his arts, and soon she was on the road to mastery.

As for this Flaminius, he knew nothing about what he was doing.

Why in Hades had he killed that Praetorian? It would have been better to stay concealed than to break the man’s neck. Very well, that armour would keep him at the bottom of that canal unless someone thought to dredge it—but what if they did? She hoped it would not occur to the guards until the two of them were long gone. And yet Flaminius had been away too long already.

Nervously, she emerged from beneath the flight of stairs, looking about her warily in the gloom. The place was empty, silent. Moonlight falling through a crack in a pair of doors cut the darkness of the mosaic floor with silver. It was as if she was the only person alive in this place.

Or was it? She thought she heard distant cries from outside. Her heart pounded. Had Flaminius been found? Were they coming for her?

She hurried up the moonlit steps.

They took her into a large upstairs hall. Crossing to the window on the far side she looked down upon a courtyard. And dashing across it into the colonnade between the two libraries, moonlight glinting on their polished armour, was a patrol of Praetorians…

Hearing a clatter from outside the Library, Flaminius rose. A key scraped in the lock of the external door. He froze, paralysed with fear. Just as the paralysis broke, and he turned to run, the door burst open and in charged several armoured figures.

As he ran, he heard the shouts of the Praetorians.

‘Somebody ran. Get after them…! What’s this? Another body? Murder!

More shouts, running footsteps. They were on his tail.

He dashed out into the main library just as the double doors burst open and in flooded more Praetorians. Alerted by the shouts of their comrades, they were glaring around the room. Flaminius skidded to a halt, and that was when they saw him.

‘Stop right there!’ shouted a burly centurion.

Flaminius turned and ran back towards the smaller room, but the Praetorians who had first seen him stood blocking the door to the office. Veering to his right he shoved open another door. It led deeper into the building, into rooms he had not searched. He pelted through them, dragging tables and stools behind him to block the paths of his pursuers. Praetorians still at his heels, he burst out into the cold open air of a courtyard.

Watching from the first floor of the Hostelry, Rhoda saw a familiar figure run out of a door at the back of the Latin Library. She gripped onto the marble window sill and bit her lip. The patrol she had seen had vanished into the colonnade, but now they or other Praetorians rushed out again in pursuit of Flaminius.

She ground her teeth. That dolt had jeopardised the entire mission! Now the whole Villa would be alerted. What had he done to draw so much attention? She had known he would be a disaster to work with, she had argued with Probus on this. But somehow Probus knew just how to manipulate her…

Flaminius ran across the courtyard, Praetorians close behind. He reached the palace and vanished under an archway. Rhoda watched as the Praetorians raced doggedly after him. Soon they would catch him, and his life would not be worth a bent copper piece. She shut her eyes wearily.

Opening them again, she noticed a man watching from the far side of the courtyard. Even from here, she could see the scar on his face. He had been observing the Praetorians blundering after Flaminius. Now he began to move, but he was heading round the side of the palace, while the Praetorians were running inside it. He looked like he knew what he was doing. Scarface was an imperial agent. If the Praetorians didn’t catch Flaminius, Scarface surely would.

The mission would have to be aborted. Flaminius, that fool, had loused it all up. Well, she wasn’t going to stay here to let herself be captured by Praetorians. She turned and walked back down the steps, reached the door to the outside, and peered out. Shouts still rang out from the direction of the palace, but the gardens ahead of her brooded dark and silent. It was not far to the perimeter wall.

She slipped out of the door and sprinted across the lawn.

Flaminius’ skin was slick with sweat, his face was burning, his head was pounding, his lungs were on fire. But running was his greatest skill. And so he ran, through palatial colonnades and peristyle courts. It was somewhere round here that he had rescued the emperor from the assassin’s blade. But there was no time left for reminiscences.

It seemed that a general alarm had been called. The Guards barracks lay just to the south east of the palace, and armoured figures were rushing out of the building, spears in their hands. Flaminius watched from behind one of the pillars in a large open-air audience chamber. He had evaded those Guards who had followed him into the palace, but now others were coming up from the south.

More ran into the audience chamber from the palace, and he inched his way deeper into the shadows. These were the ones who had been following him from the Library.

The two groups met in the middle of the audience chamber.

‘What’s the alarm?’

‘Intruder in the grounds. He’s killed a slave now. Must have been the one who broke Lepidus’ neck and dumped him in the fish pond. He ran into the palace.’

‘Search the palace again,’ barked a tribune. ‘He must be hiding in there. He’s not come this way. If he resists arrest, cut him down.’

The officer drew his short sword and led his men back into the palace. What should Flaminius do now? Minos had been murdered, the Moesia memorandum stolen, and the Villa was in uproar. Who knew what had happened to Rhoda. Flaminius would have to return to the tunnels, lie low, and come out when all was quiet again. Then and only then could he hope to learn who had killed the slave and taken the document.

He slipped out from behind the Doric column and picked his way warily towards the Golden Square.

As he went, he failed to notice the scar faced man watching him from behind another column. The man produced a scroll from beneath his tunic, studied it for a moment. Then looked up. He nodded, and hurried after the vanishing intruder.

Flaminius entered the Square from the south. The canal where he had dumped Lepidus’ body stretched between him and the far side, where the entrance to the tunnel was located. He halted and listened. The palace building behind him rang with the sound of Praetorians searching for him. He hoped they would keep busy long enough for him to reach the tunnel entrance.

What he would do after that, he was unsure. The chances of finding the murderer and the memorandum were low. Why had person or persons unknown killed Minos? And why take the memorandum, too? They must be part of the conspiracy. But how could they have known he was looking for the memorandum, or that a meeting had been arranged with Minos? It made no sense…

As he crossed the garden he heard footsteps, and five Praetorians, each one holding a flaming torch, marched in from the northern corner. He ducked back behind a cedar and watched. They had halted and were talking, gesturing in the direction of the palace.

Flaminius gathered that they were a regular patrol; they were debating whether they should continue their tour of the grounds or find out what the alarm was about. They seemed to come to no very quick decision. After a while they started searching the garden.

Flaminius cursed. They were between him and his objective now. He looked about him. Maybe he could circle round, use the cover of the nymphaeum to get to the far colonnade, then sneak down it while the Praetorians were busy searching the garden. He certainly couldn’t stay where he was. They were still probing the bushes on the far side of the canal, but it seemed likely they would soon cross it and enter this sector of the garden.

Ducking down, crawling on his hands and knees, he made his way across the garden, keeping the canal between himself and the Praetorians at all times. At last he reached the portico leading to the nymphaeum, rose to his feet, and slipped into the little temple.

Inside all was cool and tranquil. A little fountain gurgled in the centre of an open space, and statues of women stood in niches—representing the nymph, he guessed. But he had no time to adopt a suitably reverential attitude. Going back to the doorway he looked out at the garden.

Two of the Praetorians had crossed the canal by now and were searching the very area where he had been hiding. The rest were on the far side, between him and the colonnade. Something else Flaminius saw also made him pause.

A dark figure was watching the scene from the far side, from the spot where Flaminius himself had entered the garden. Had he been followed? If so, why had they not raised the alarm?

Troubled, he shook his head. He couldn’t stay here, he could see that much. Sooner or later, the Praetorians would turn their attention to the buildings.

Slipping back outside he started making his way round the side of the garden. If he could keep to the shadows he would be able to circle round and get into the colonnade. From there he could access the room containing the entrance to the tunnel.

If anyone saw him now, they would know at once that he was a fugitive. He darted from shadow to shadow, from pillar to statue to pillar again.

At last he reached the northern corner, where an archway opened out into a corridor that led northwards. Here he halted, using the arch as cover. The searching Praetorians had all returned to this side of the canal, and their leader was addressing them. He waited impatiently, but they showed no signs of moving.

They began searching the colonnade. Flaminius watched in dismay. They would reach the archway in no time! There was only one thing for it. He turned and hurried down the passage.

As he did so, he did not notice the scar-faced man, who had followed him round the garden, hurrying after him.

The passageway ended at a T-junction. To the left it turned back on itself then came straight out into the open beside the amphitheatre. He would be too exposed out there with the Praetorians on the lookout. To the right the passage ended at a heavy door. He tried it but found it was locked.

Bending down, he produced a small lock pick from his sandal—he had wheedled one out of Probus after his previous mission—and slid this into the lock. As he did, he thought he heard stealthy footsteps further down the passage. Breathing heavily he concentrated on moving the tumblers. They were stiff. No one had oiled this lock in some time. Very thoughtless of them… Ah! Now it began to move, with a creak and a groan… and the door swung open. A waft of expensive perfume met his nostrils.

The footsteps were growing louder… Flaminius darted inside, and closed the door behind him. He looked around in the gloom for something to jam it shut when a voice from the darkness whispered querulously, ‘Who is that?’

—14—

Flaminius whirled round as flint scraped on steel and a lamp flared up.

‘And who in Hades are you, sir?’

It was a woman who spoke. Flaminius recognised her as she appeared in the lamplight. She was older than when he had last been in her presence, about fifty he guessed. She showed no sign of recognising him, but after all their acquaintance had been brief.

When he had seen her down in the library courtyard, she had been clad in a green stola, her hair elaborately coiffured. Tonight her hair hung in disarray around her haughty, patrician face, drooped in her fierce eyes, and all that she wore was a silken nightgown, which she clutched about her with one hand. Her mouth was as pursed and disapproving as ever—perhaps understandably at surprising an intruder in her domain.

She held the guttering lamp higher.

‘I asked you a question,’ said Sabina bravely. ‘Are you dumb as well as singularly lacking in manners?’ Her eyes focused on the short sword he wore at his belt. ‘A Praetorian? What has happened to my guards?’

‘They were called away.’ The men in the Golden Square must have been on sentry duty outside her quarters—her prison. ‘There was an intruder in the grounds and they went searching for him. I think they’re still looking.’

‘An intruder?’ Coolly she placed the oil lamp on a low table and studied him searchingly across the vestibule, her features composed, her body seemingly relaxed, and only a slight quiver of her bosom and a quaver in her voice revealing her fear. ‘It seems they were looking in the wrong place. Why have you forced your way into my prison? I should call them back and have you taken away.’

Flaminius had a flash of inspiration. He knelt before her. ‘O Empress,’ he said, ‘I come to liberate you from your captivity!’

She gazed down at him in silence, her mouth open in wonder.

‘To liberate me?’ she whispered. ‘How I have longed to be free!’ She looked sadly into the middle distance. ‘Oh, it has not been so terrible, not always. I have companions in my loneliness, slaves and handmaidens, and sometimes I even have visitors. Sometimes I am taken to other prisons, even to a villa in Baiae in the summer. But I have never seen my husband the emperor in all that time.’ She looked about her wildly. ‘They spy on me, you know,’ she hissed. ‘They watch me from the walls of my bedchamber.’

‘I know,’ said Flaminius. He rose again. ‘I saw them,’ he added, ‘when I was on my way here.’

‘The Villa is up in arms.’ Sabina directed him to a table on the far side of the chamber where he poured wine for them both. She reclined on a couch and he sat on a footstool, gazing up at her. ‘Is this your doing?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I distracted them,’ he said, ‘I and a companion. Where Rhoda is now, I do not know. But here I am.’ He looked round the chamber. Rich wall hangings draped its sides, olibanum scented the air. It was opulent enough for a prison cell. He’d seen worse. He’d been in worse.

‘And we will escape?’ Sabina asked. ‘But where? And who sent you?’

‘If you don’t mind, my lady,’ said Flaminius, ‘I would rather not give you their names. Should anything go wrong, the less you know the better.’

The fact was, he simply couldn’t think of a single Roman citizen who would want to free her from her prison. He was playing for time. If he could persuade her to shelter him, he could wait until the commotion died down outside then go looking for the lost memorandum. He was fairly certain that it was the scar-faced man who had killed Minos and taken the document. But as for where the imperial agent had gone, that was a mystery.

Sabina examined him. She clasped her hands together. ‘Surely it’s Clarus,’ she said. ‘Did Septicius Clarus put you up to this?’ When he shook his head, her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t mean… Suetonius? That tongue tied librarian?’ Again he shook his head. She pursed her lips. ‘Will you take me to them?’

Flaminius was beginning to regret his story. ‘I will take you away from here,’ he told her. ‘You will be free to live as you wish.’ How could she be free anywhere in the empire? ‘You will be free,’ he added glibly, ‘in Parthia.’

‘Parthia?’ Her eyes were wide. ‘You will take me to the Parthian Empire?’

Flaminius nodded. When telling a lie, he told himself, you might as well make it a big one. ‘King Arsaces has heard of your plight,’ he said, ‘and he sent me as his agent to bring you to him. You will live in honoured exile at his court. But wait,’ he added as she began to speak, ‘if there is to be any chance of your freedom, you must keep me concealed here. We can’t go until the alarm is over. Is there anywhere you can hide me?’

Sabina reached out to clasp his hands. Her eyes were shining. ‘So young and strong,’ she murmured. ‘And you come to rescue me.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘It would be most improper of me to hide a young man in my quarters! If this got back to my husband, who knows what he would think?’ She scowled. ‘He already hates me. That’s why he keeps me here under house arrest.

‘I had my little flings, you see. A Praetorian prefect, an imperial secretary… They were both found out. But they were part of a plot, too. I was implicated, although I didn’t really know what was happening. There were others involved, too, some of my husband’s closest friends.’ She listed a few names, most of which were no surprise to Flaminius. One, however, came as quite a shock, and he had to school his face into immobility.

She drew him close. ‘You have no idea what it is like to be married to a man such as he,’ she told him. ‘Even before he had me banished here, I hardly ever saw him. Now I never do. I have companions, yes, but only in the day. At night, my handmaidens sleep elsewhere, I am guarded, and I have no kind of companionship.’ She laughed bitterly, indicating the lamp she had lit. ‘I must even do the work of a slave…’

She showed no signs of recognising in this desperate fugitive the Praetorian tribune she had tried to seduce in the House of Augustus several years ago. But she was delivering all the old lines. It must be a play she had acted out time and again. He had seen last night that she did not lack bedfellows.

‘My lady,’ he said, gazing deep into her eyes. ‘I only ask that you find me a hiding place where I can remain undetected while they search for me. Once things become quiet, we can make our escape. Until then, it will be hopeless. The Villa is in a state of uproar.’

She sighed. ‘Another night or two will be no worse than all the desolate nights and days have been. With your companionship they will be less lonely.’ She gazed pensively into the distance. ‘I spent much of my childhood here. Oh, not in this building. It is new! But the Tiburtine Villa belonged to my family long before my husband received it as part of my dowry. And now he has the gall to make it my prison simply because I sought companionship in my solitude.’ She turned to consider him again. ‘It will be sad to leave here. But now that my childhood home has become my prison, I must think of other refuges. In Parthia I will find my happiness…’

The door burst open. Flaminius turned to see a man, barely discernible in the guttering light of the lamp. A drawn sword glittered in his hand.

Flaminius saw the scar that ran from eye to jaw.

‘My lady,’ said the imperial agent, quietly closing the door behind him. ‘Don’t listen to this man’s words. He is not an agent of the Parthian king. Instead he is a murderer and a thief and a treasure hunter.’

Flaminius glanced at Sabina, who recoiled from him in sudden horror. ‘Is this true?’

Flaminius could barely recognise himself in the man’s words. ‘I don’t know what he means. But let me tell you something, my lady—this man is a spy. It is he and another man who have been watching you from the tunnels beneath your quarters.’

Sabina turned to the imperial agent. ‘Are you a spy?’ she said angrily. ‘Are you the man my husband has set to watch over my every moment?’

The agent neither confirmed nor denied this. ‘Your companion here has a habit of breaking into imperial property. It is only a short while since a man of his description—minus that scruffy beard—entered the imperial palace in Rome in the guise of a slave, stole an important document, and assaulted the emperor’s favourite, his new catamite Antinous…’

‘Then there is some good in him,’ said Sabina in a bitter voice.

‘Enough, my lady,’ said the agent. ‘He is a thief. But his next move was easily predicted. The document he took contained intelligence concerning the fate of the gold of King Decebalus. We knew that his next move would be to secure a certain memorandum written in Moesia…’

‘And you knew that he would come here?’ Sabina had been listening intently.

‘He did not come here to rescue you,’ the agent said, nodding to Flaminius. ‘He is in search of the gold of a barbarian king! And like that self-same barbarian, he is willing to steal, murder and lie to attain it.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Sabina icily.

‘It’s a pack of lies,’ said Flaminius. ‘Would you believe a man who I have seen spying on your every move?’

‘Nobody is spying on you, my lady,’ said the imperial agent. ‘Don’t listen to the words of a thief and a liar.’

Sabina laughed. ‘Now I know that it is you who is the liar,’ she said; ‘condemned out of your own mouth! I have been spied upon every night that I have been imprisoned here. I have heard your whispers and your scurryings. Like rats! You have infested this place like vermin! I would have reported you and your kind long ago, but I knew that my husband employed you. He spies on everyone! You can’t fool me, oh,’ she added with a laugh, ‘but I fooled you. As soon as you thought I was asleep…’

The agent looked stricken at her revelations. It was inconceivable that the object of his surveillance could have been aware of him.

Unsheathing his stolen sword, Flaminius moved like a striking snake.

The agent turned quickly, bringing up his already drawn weapon, and the clash of the two blades rang out from the frescoed walls. Flaminius cursed. He had to despatch this spy quickly. The noise of fighting would bring the guards. And he knew of only one escape route—the way they would come.

The agent’s scar flushed redly, and he snarled. ‘You will surrender yourself to me at once,’ he blustered. ‘My orders were to wait for you and to make you my prisoner.’

Flaminius lunged at him again but the agent brought down his blade in a ringing parry. ‘Is that why you killed that slave?’ Flaminius panted. ‘Minos, the library slave?’

The agent tried to dash the short sword from Flaminius’ hand, but Flaminius leapt back, colliding with the couch where Sabina sat in terror, arms wrapped around herself. Flaminius barged forwards, knocking the agent back. He followed up with another lunge, but the agent dodged backwards, then flexed his arms.

From outside came shouts and the clatter of running feet. The agent jerked his head in their direction. ‘You’re outnumbered, thief,’ he said. ‘In moments I will be surrounded by Praetorians. They have no notion what is happening here, but they will not let you leave alive.’

Flaminius met him in the middle of the floor, by the table where the amphora stood. Their blades rang again, but as they did so, Flaminius kicked out and sent the table flying. The amphora hit the ground with a sharp crack and wine spilled like blood on the coloured tiles. The agent slipped in the spilled fluid and as he fell on his back his blade went skittering across the wet floor.

Flaminius grinned with cold satisfaction, standing over the man with his sword pointing at his chest.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘maybe you can answer a few questions. Who are you? And who are you working for…?’

As if in horror, the agent put his hand to his mouth. Flaminius saw the man’s throat working. Dropping his sword with a sharp clang, he seized the man’s wrist and pulled his hand away. The man choked. He writhed on the floor. His heels drummed the tiles. He stilled into immobility, mouth white with froth.

Sabina shrieked.

‘Poison,’ Flaminius muttered. ‘He must have had a poison pill in his hand. Now I’ll never know who he was.’

He rolled the agent over hurriedly, checking his body. It came as no surprise that the man was dead. But that wasn’t what concerned him the most as he searched through his tunic.

‘What are you looking for?’ It was Sabina’s shaking voice. ‘Are you a thief, as he said? Would you steal from the very dead?’

Flaminius ignored her. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as his questing fingers found a scroll thrust into the man’s tunic. Drawing it out, he unrolled it enough to read the first words.

At the sound of shouted orders from outside he glanced up. Turning to Sabina, he said, ‘I’ve found what I was looking for. Whatever he may have said, I’m not a thief. I’m not a treasure hunter. There is a conspiracy at the heart of Roman politics, and I am attempting to expose it. This memorandum may very well help me. But not if I’m found here. Is there another way out of your quarters?’

She shook her head. Flaminius thrust the document inside his own tunic and crossed the room to seize her by the arms. ‘Is there no way I can escape? Think, woman! Think!’

There was a clatter from outside. The Praetorians were already in the passage.

—15—

‘My bedchamber!’ she gasped.

Flaminius was taken aback. ‘This is hardly the time…’ he began.

Impatiently she grabbed his wrist and led him into another room, lamp held high in her other hand. In one corner was a bed surrounded by drapes. The walls were festooned with hangings. Running to the far wall she indicated a dark line of shadow near floor level.

Flaminius realised where he was. This was indeed her bedchamber, and he had seen it before—from the other end of that dark slit in the wall. It was barely wide enough to let a rat enter the room.

‘Why are you showing me this?’

Someone began pounding on the main doors outside.

‘I-I thought you could get out that way,’ she stammered.

‘Through here?’

She grew angry. ‘There’s no other option,’ she told him. ‘If there was a better way out, don’t you think I would have taken it long ago?’

Flaminius knelt down to examine this supposed exit. He would hardly have noticed it if she hadn’t drawn his attention to it. She seized his wrists and looked him in the eyes.

‘You said you had come here to rescue me,’ she panted. ‘But the man with the scar, he said… and then you said… Who in Juno’s name are you? Will you rescue me one day? I would be happy if only I could have my liberty restored.’

There was a splintering crack from the main doors as the guards forced them open. Needlessly, he thought, since no one had locked them, but the Praetorians weren’t to know. He snatched his hands free from her surprisingly strong grasp.

‘I’ll see what I can do to make sure you are set free,’ he said, ‘if I can.’

He thrust his legs into the crack. To his surprise it was wider than he’d expected, and they dangled down at an angle. He slid himself in as far as his waist, then the sword belt got in the way. Hastily he removed it and with a scraping clatter slid sword and sword belt down the shaft. Looking up, he said, ‘Get into bed. Tell them you heard fighting but don’t know who it was.’

She seized his chin in her small hands and kissed him.

Flaminius broke off as he heard a Praetorian shouting, ‘There’s another body here, sir!’ and another saying, ‘Search the apartments. Where is our guest?’

As Flaminius slid down the shaft, the last thing he saw was Sabina blowing out the lantern as she scrambled back into bed. He half slipped, half lowered himself down the shaft. It was tight, not meant for a man’s passage, and several times he thought he would remain stuck in there until he died. But as he felt his legs come out into the cold void of the tunnel below, he heard more voices.

‘We’ve found her, sir.’

‘My lady, there is a corpse in the main room. Can you explain its presence?’

‘We heard a scream, and the sound of fighting. Have you been troubled by a fugitive?’

Her answer was muffled, confused. She was a fine actress, Flaminius thought. As good as Rhoda.

With a thump Flaminius dropped down onto the tunnel floor. It was pitch black except for the wavering line of torchlight from the slit. He felt about on the cold stone floor until he found the hilt of his short sword. As the muffled conversation continued above, he strapped on the sword and marched off down the tunnel in the direction of the Pavilion of Tempe.

With luck, Rhoda would still be waiting there and they would be able to escape the Villa together. If she had gone wandering, he had no intention of searching for her in a place that rivalled a kicked-over anthill for confusion and chaos.

He stumbled onwards through the all-encompassing darkness, able to make his way only by feel. It was colder than Caledonia in winter down here, darker than an Egyptian tomb. At one point his groping hands met the rungs of the stone ladder that would take him up to the little room off the Golden Square, but he felt that it would be a bad idea to climb it.

With luck, Sabina had sent the Praetorians off in the wrong direction, but for all he knew he would find them waiting for him up there. He regretted deceiving her, but he had had no real choice. And perhaps a flying visit from a stalwart young renegade had added spice to her dreary imprisonment.

Finally he came to the end of the tunnel, where stone rungs led him up another shaft that opened in the Pavilion of Tempe. He lifted the trapdoor cautiously and looked out. No sign of anyone; no Praetorians, no Rhoda.

He climbed out and carefully closed the trapdoor behind him. Hand on the pommel of his sword, he went to the cubbyhole under the flight of steps.

‘Rhoda?’ he hissed. No reply. ‘Rhoda!’

He entered the cubbyhole to find it deserted. She had gone.

He hurried back out into the passage. Somewhere in the direction of the Golden Square he could hear the Praetorians still searching the grounds. Had they captured Rhoda? Why had the silly girl left her hiding place? Surely she could have seen it was dangerous.

Now Flaminius would have to escape on his own. Well, one man might evade the searching Praetorians better than a man and a girl. He hurried through the deserted passages of the pavilion and came out on the far side.

A grass lawn stretched away into the darkness. He could see no sign of the perimeter wall, but a whisper of smoke still hung in the air, so the wood stack Rhoda had fired the night before must have been close. He must reach the wall, climb it, make his way through the woods and fields back to the road—and Rhoda’s carriage would be there to take him away. The slave might make a fuss if Rhoda was not with him, but he had a sword.

What if the carriage was not there? What if Rhoda had abandoned him? It would be a long walk, and he might well have Praetorians on his tail. He needed a fast getaway.

Well, he wouldn’t get away by dithering. He left the doorway at a run. He was only halfway across the lawn when he heard a shout from behind him.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw several torch bearing guards standing beside the palace. One was pointing at him. Even as he looked back, they began to sprint after him.

He ran through the dark. He had one advantage over his pursuers: they were weighed down by armour, crested helmets and burnished breastplates. All he had to slow him was the short sword at his hip. As he ran, he debated unbuckling the sword belt and flinging it away, the sword with it. But he decided against it. If the Praetorians caught up with him, he would rather go down fighting than face the interrogators.

He kept running. The wall loomed up in the darkness.

Flaminius flung himself up, swarming over the top. As he did, the air whistled around him and a spear passed by, followed by another, both plummeting into the darkness of the wood beyond. He glanced back to see the Praetorians had been reinforced. They seemed to be using him for target practice. Something thumped against his shoulder, and he looked down in wonder to see that a spear had struck him a glancing blow before falling to the grass.

As more spears whistled his way, he half jumped, half fell over the other side, landing heavily and awkwardly in the undergrowth. Peering dazedly out between broken branches, he heard the Praetorians advancing towards the wall.

‘Did you kill him, Ennius?’ one shouted.

Another Praetorian shook his head. ‘Just winged him, I think. He must be down there.’

Flaminius clutched at his shoulder, felt his palm sticky with his own blood. Ignoring the pain, he rose up on hands and feet and crawled deeper into the undergrowth. As he did, he heard the voices of the Praetorians, and mingled with them came the deep barks of dogs.

Somewhere deeper in the wood, he stepped out onto a narrow path. He had to find his way to the road and the carriage. That was his only chance of escape. The Praetorians were now quartering the wood, torches held high, ruddy lights shining in the darkness like the Pharos of Alexandria. He turned and hurried away.

He came out on the edge of a field. Away from the lights of the Villa, he could see the stars shining down, pale and cold. The field was washed by their dim glow. And on the far side marched a line of trees. He remembered them running alongside the Tiburtine Way. He had almost made it, he realised. All he had to do was cross the field and he would be at the carriage. He started to run.

Almost at once, he heard men shouting behind him. He looked back to see torch bearing Praetorians at the edge of the woods. Some of them had hunting dogs straining at the leash. They started to follow him, the dogs barking, the guards yelling.

Panting, he ran on.

Rhoda sat in the carriage, peering out of the open door, her slave up on the footboard silently awaiting the order to leave, the four horses snorting impatiently. She could not return to Probus with a story of a failed mission. She had never failed a mission for him yet, and he paid well. He was her best client. But he had never previously insisted she take on a novice in the art like that dolt Flaminius. The fool botched all their chances when he broke that Praetorian’s neck. They could have hidden. They could have run. By killing the man, he had inevitably alerted the rest. And now see what that had led to!

Since she reached her carriage the Villa had been a hubbub, a chaos, a confusion of light and noise. She pictured Flaminius running for his life, guards at his heels. The noise surely meant that he still lived. She was for once in her short life paralysed by indecision. Now she did not know whether to tell the slave to whip up the horses and head for Rome and Probus, or to wait to see if by the most incredible of chances Flaminius might get back to them alive. But how could he do that if he was pursued?

Torches were flaring among the trees by the road. The search had fanned out this far. But where was the hunted fugitive? She shook her head. She had made her decision.

‘Even if Flaminius still lives, he will only bring the Praetorians down on us,’ she declared. ‘Whip up the horses, Cingetorix. We must leave.’

A figure hurtled out of the gloom, racing across the field. And behind it came torch bearing figures and barking dogs.

Cingetorix cracked his whip.

‘Stop, you fool,’ Rhoda said as the horses broke into a trot. ‘Whoa there!’

Cingetorix pulled at the traces and the horses came to a halt again, snorting and whinnying. Flaminius tumbled out onto the road, and Rhoda cried out to him.

‘Over here!’

Flaminius ran for the still open door of the carriage. Praetorians appeared, swords drawn. Flaminius leapt into the carriage, pushing past Rhoda. Cingetorix cracked his whip again. The carriage door slammed shut of its own accord as the vehicle took off down the paved road, but a flung spear struck it and stood shaking in the wood as the horses galloped away into the night.

Flaminius sank back against the carriage wall. He was panting, and sweat stood out on his skin, but he was grinning.

‘Well timed,’ he gasped. ‘I thought you were going without me.’

He peered back up the road. The Praetorians were rapidly receding dots of torchlight in the darkness beneath the stars. He turned to Rhoda again. She was watching him.

‘What an unholy mess you made of the whole business,’ she said. ‘We were both almost killed. And for what? Did you even make the rendezvous with the slave Minos?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘When I found him, he was already dead,’ he began.

Rhoda snorted. ‘I knew you would botch the whole business…’

Flaminius felt inside his tunic. ‘Luckily, however,’ he said, ‘I caught up with the man who killed him.’ He produced the scroll and brandished it triumphantly. ‘This is what we came for.’

They were thundering down the road, skirting the Villa. Flaminius saw the turnoff for the drive up ahead. And as they raced past, he heard the pounding of many hoofs.

‘What’s that?’ cried Rhoda.

Flaminius looked back and went pale. A troop of horsemen was galloping out of the drive and onto the road behind them.

‘Imperial horse guards,’ he said. ‘They’re right behind us.’

—16—

The decurion in command of the troop of cavalry was a barbarian, an Angrivarii warrior who had joined the Roman auxiliaries in Moguntiacum and worked up the ranks until he received this posting—guarding the emperor’s wife. Gaiseric was his name, and he was a fiercely loyal supporter of the emperor.

He dug his heels into his horse’s flank and galloped onwards down the starlit road, followed by the steeds of his sworn comrades, each a man of Germanic stock like himself, each red bearded and long haired, each clad in mail and carrying a long lance. The trees on either side of the road echoed back the clamour of their passing, dust rose in the gloom, half choking the helmeted riders. Far off, their quarry was still careering wildly down the road.

They broke out from the trees. The carriage was halfway across the bridge over the River Anio. Gaiseric drew his long sword and shouted harshly in his own tongue, ‘After them! Don’t let them get away!’

The bridge boomed to the drumming of the horses’ hoofs as they crossed it. Still the carriage hurtled down the road, which was now a silver strip leading between the blackness of fields and vineyards. But they were gaining on it. Gaiseric felt a fierce exultation grip his heart, and he vowed rich sacrifices to the god Tuisto if he was the one to reach it first.

The horses, urged on by their riders, galloped faster. At last Gaiseric was right behind the runaway carriage, which was lurching about the road, dragged by the four maddened horses, seemingly out of control. Gaiseric urged his own steed closer… closer… closer.

Now he was neck and neck with the first of the horses, a slender bay. He craned his head round to glare at the footboard, seeking to speak to the driver. But there was no driver! Where in most carriages a slave would sit, whip in one hand, traces in the other, was—emptiness. Blankness. Gaiseric felt a thrill of superstitious fear. Was this some ghost carriage driven by invisible phantoms?

Banishing his night fears, he pulled up his legs, still holding onto the reins of his galloping horse, then let go, sprang across the gap, hitting the side of the carriage with a thump and seizing hold of the ornamental moulding. Gritting his teeth ferociously, he hauled himself up onto the footboard, then snatched hold of the trailing traces. Sitting down on the seat, he hauled on them again and again until the runaway horses had galloped themselves into stillness. Flanks shuddering, jaws foaming, the creatures stood motionless.

As Gaiseric jumped down to investigate the cab, the rest of his troopers rode up to join him.

‘How, Gaiseric, chief,’ barked one of them. ‘You stop them one handed!’ His men sent up a catcall of acclamation. ‘Now our prey is within our grasp!’

Gaiseric strode to the door of the carriage and flung it open.

The carriage was empty.

As dawn broke over the Apennine Mountains, three bedraggled figures crawled through the undergrowth in a garden on the edges of Tibur. Some way from the emperor’s own famous villa, an avenue of cedars stood on the edge of a private park belonging to a prominent citizen of the town.

It also abutted onto the road to Rome, and it had been here that Flaminius, Rhoda and the slave had sought shelter after all three had leapt from the speeding carriage. Unseen in the darkness by their mounted pursuers, they had lain low in this garden until the first light of day.

‘We’d better get moving,’ said Flaminius. ‘It’s a long way to Rome, and now we’re on foot it will take even longer.’

They reached the edge of the dusty road. There was no sign of any riders at this time of day, although hoofmarks scarred the ground in both directions. Flaminius found a moss-grown milepost and sat down on it, peering at the inscription upside down through his legs.

‘Eighteen miles to Rome,’ he reported.

‘I suppose it was a good idea to jump from the carriage,’ Rhoda mused, looking up from where she had been in earnest consultation with her slave. ‘But that vehicle wasn’t cheap, and nor were those horses. I hope Probus intends to reimburse me!’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘What matters is that we have found what we were sent after.’ He patted his tunic and heard the reassuring crinkling sound of dry papyrus. ‘This document is the key to understanding the plot against us.’

‘No one’s plotting against me,’ said Rhoda tartly, as her slave withdrew into the nearby bushes on some mysterious errand. ‘Eighteen miles?’ she added. ‘No one could walk that.’

Flaminius rose to his feet. ‘You’re a city girl,’ he said. ‘Going everywhere by litter, no wonder you’re so soft. In the legions, I was used to walking eighteen miles a day.’

She snorted. ‘Probus said you were an auxiliary tribune,’ she said. ‘He said you were an excellent horseman.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘Marching eighteen miles a day, I soon requested a transfer,’ he admitted. ‘But do we have any choice?’

Cingetorix returned, leading three fine looking horses. He was glancing about himself warily.

‘Where in Hades did you get them from?’ Flaminius demanded.

‘He saw a stable at the edge of the park,’ Rhoda said, mounting a roan stallion without troubling to saddle him. ‘While you were snoring, he was out scouting.’

The slave mounted another horse, wearing a smug expression.

Flaminius had not been looking forward to walking the whole day. After his exertions of the last two days and nights, and little sleep, a good ride down to Rome admittedly had its attractions. ‘But we can’t go by road,’ he objected. ‘They will still be looking for us, and as soon as the owner of these horses wakes up and finds he’s been robbed, they will know how we got away. We must travel by the back lanes and trackways as much as possible.’

He mounted, and led them at a gallop.

They reached Rome at dusk. Following Flaminius’ route had involved several wrong turns, and at one point they had been forced to gallop across a slave worked olive plantation when a gang of overseers gave chase, but they had shaken off all pursuit. In the end it took them as long as it would have done if they had been raw recruits of the legions, marching their stipulated eighteen miles a day.

Riding uses different muscles from marching, but some time had passed since Flaminius had ridden anywhere for an extended period—in fact, it must have been on the way back to Alexandria from the Libyan Desert, and much of the journey had been on camelback.

They returned to the Tiburtine Way as it entered the great sprawling metropolis. They had decided to go at once to Probus’ lodging house in the Argiletum and arrange a meeting with him. Flaminius had spent some of the quieter moments of the journey scanning through the document. What he had read there had given him pause for thought. He had also remembered Sabina’s words, her memories of the conspiracy on whose edges she had once found herself.

He pitied the woman. Her imprisonment was unjust; her involvement in that foolish plot due to boredom, and who could blame her? Flaminius remembered that vicious little brute Antinous. Sabina was haughty and a little too long in the fetlock for his liking, but he could not see what the emperor saw in a vile little Greek like his new catamite.

‘What’s that over there?’ asked Rhoda, rousing Flaminius from his reverie. Although shades of night were falling, it was still possible to see the black column of smoke rising to the dark blue vault.

‘Looks like a fire,’ he said. ‘Somewhere in the middle of the City. Let’s hope the Watchmen have seen it.’

Many years had passed since the Great Fire. Flaminius’ own father had been a boy when flames had raged across the City, transforming it into an inferno. Since then the Watch had been extra vigilant, and never again had any fires spread so far. But they were a frequent menace, especially in poverty stricken areas. And as Flaminius rode his stolen horse further into the City, he realised that the smoke came from the Argiletum.

A strange fear seized hold of his heart.

It was night by the time he rode into the winding streets of the Argiletum. Rhoda and the slave Cingetorix trailed behind him, the former crying out to Flaminius, asking what was wrong. But Flaminius barely heard her queries. Something told him, some god, some skill in prophecy he had never dreamed of, that the pillar of smoke did not bode well.

He cantered into the street where Probus had his lodging house. Soot stained all the buildings black—all bar one, which was a guttering ruin. The local Watch was assembled outside the blazing wreck, doing their best to stop the fire from spreading while the gawping civilians of Rome did their best to get under their feet. Flaminius leapt from his horse and without stopping to secure the beast ran to the aid of the Watchmen.

They had a squirter, if not as effective a model as the one used by the Praetorians in the Villa, and had already doused most of the flames. Now they were breaking down the walls of the building with axes in an attempt to gain entrance.

‘Does anyone know who was inside?’ a Watch centurion asked of the on-looking mob. No one seemed to know anything much.

‘Upstairs was a lodging house,’ Flaminius said bleakly, looking on as two brawny Watchmen smashed down the door. Inside was a confusion of wet ashes and blackened timbers. ‘Downstairs was a wine shop. The House of the Satyr, it was called.’ He gazed sadly at a blackened carving of Silenus that lay face down in a puddle, as if it had fallen asleep after overindulging.

‘You knew this place, citizen?’ the Watchman asked. ‘You drank here?’

Rhoda joined them. ‘What’s happened? The House of the… oh, no…!’

‘I knew it,’ Flaminius told the Watchman. ‘Not very well, I only went here once. But I knew it.’

Another charred figure lay beneath a tangle of fallen beams. Before the Watchman could reply, he was in there, forcing his way through the ruin. Reaching the fallen figure, he turned it over.

It was a corpse, burnt beyond recognition. A horrible suspicion had been growing in his mind ever since he saw the pillar of smoke. Now it had almost taken on full form.

‘Keep back, keep back!’ the Watch centurion was saying. As his men held back the crowd, he crossed to Flaminius’ side. ‘Was this man known to you? Did he have enemies? They say another man, bearded like yourself, was seen running away from the wine shop shortly before the fire broke out.’

Flaminius looked up, bleak. ‘It’s difficult to say,’ he began. ‘It’s the right size for the man I knew. But it’s so badly burnt. It could be the wine shop keeper for all I know. There’s no way to identify him.’

An idea struck him, and he crouched down, seizing the burnt corpse by the hand. The scorched flesh felt strangely warm, almost as if the body was still alive, but that was impossible. Nothing could have survived those burns. Through eyes that were misted with tears—why was he crying? He had not cried since Medea died, and even that had been in private, not before the eyes of the mob—he recognised the silver signet ring.

He had seen it on Probus’ hand so many times. Almost unaware of what he was doing, he slipped it off the dead finger and slid it onto his own.

A slim figure came to crouch beside him. He looked up. ‘Probus will never reimburse you now, Rhoda,’ he said. As she looked at him in horror, he turned to the Watchman. ‘Yes, centurion,’ he confirmed, ‘you could say he had enemies.’

His eyes narrowed. A burly figure stood at the far end of the street, watching the scene. Pushing the Watchman aside, he walked towards this newcomer. The man vanished down an alleyway.

‘What will you do now?’

Flaminius and Rhoda sat within the rotunda in the Gardens of Sallust where Flaminius had last spoken with Probus. After the aftermath of the blaze in the Argiletum, they had returned to Rhoda’s own lodgings with her slave. Now the two of them had come out here to the Gardens. It was some time after midnight, and the lawns and groves were silent and deserted, but the scent of night blooming flowers was heady in the air.

She looked at him for a long time when he did not reply, then touched his arm. He looked up, starting.

‘What will I do?’ he repeated, as if she had just asked the question. He pursed his lips. ‘Probus died because he threatened someone. He was dismissed from the Commissary for the same reason. Perhaps if he—and I—had not investigated the mystery, the fire would never have been started.’

‘You don’t think it was an accident?’

He shook his head. ‘It was no accident. While we were making merry fools of ourselves in Tibur, someone gave orders for Probus’ death. And not just his death. It seems that we’re all in danger. All Probus’ associates.’

Flaminius remembered what he had learnt when he caught up with the burly man in the alley.

‘But who?’ Rhoda asked. ‘Who is behind all this?’

Flaminius took the battered document out of his tunic and unrolled it on the bench. He held a lamp over it and studied the writing. He traced a name on the document with his finger. Then he looked up suddenly.

‘Something Sabina said puzzled me,’ he told Rhoda.

‘You spoke with the empress?’ Rhoda asked.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Flaminius asked. ‘She sheltered me. She’s not such a bad sort after all. On our last meeting I disliked her intensely, but she’d forgotten that. Forgotten that it was me who exposed the plot she had been implicated in. A plot against the emperor.’

Rhoda gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘She plotted against her own husband? No wonder he keeps her a prisoner! I’m only surprised he didn’t have her killed.’

‘There was a lack of evidence,’ Flaminius said. ‘And Hadrian was merciful. She was very much on the fringes. I told him the names of the real ringleaders, the ones I knew about. He didn’t move against them, either, not in any real sense. The conspiracy was unmasked, but the plotters were given a reprieve. Not executed, merely “banished from public life”, most of them. In Sabina’s case that meant house arrest, but the others were simply dismissed from the emperor’s service.’ His own reward had been discharge from the Praetorian Guard. ‘Some not even that.’

‘Why?’

‘He wanted to avoid a scandal,’ Flaminius said softly. ‘Hadrian’s reign began in blood. Rivals and enemies were murdered left, right, and centre—but not at his orders. So he maintains. It was the work of an overzealous Praetorian Prefect, who was removed shortly afterwards. And Hadrian did not want to anger the Senate further. So when Probus and I exposed the plot against his life, he showed mercy on the plotters. What’s more, he regarded my work as something of an embarrassment.

‘But it seems I didn’t do as good a job as I thought,’ Flaminius continued, gazing at the distant lights of the City. ‘There was one conspirator who I did not identify. But Sabina named him. He wasn’t in Italy at the time, so that’s how he avoided arrest, although I met him later, without knowing him for who he truly was and under very different circumstances. In Britain. Britain was always important to them. It’s such a long way from Rome, of course. That was where I first found out about it—me, and… Probus. And that’s where we’re going.’ He looked at her. ‘You can join us, if you like,’ he added. ‘You might prove useful.’

For a long time Rhoda made no reply.

Book Three—The Caledonia Conundrum

—17—

Bodotria Estuary, Caledonia, Ides of June 125 AD

The salt-tanged sea wind moaned mournfully around the thorn bushes as it whipped in from the scudding waters of the firth. Night had fallen long ago, the sun setting in a bloody cataclysm over the dark land to westward, and the wind was cold. Flaminius shivered as he hung, pinioned by his spread-eagled arms, from the gnarled, withered tree, but it was not the cold alone that made him shake.

He lifted his head and peered out into the murk. The island was small, a rocky excrescence in the wide waters of the firth, the open sea at its back. Grassy slopes ceased abruptly at the head of cliffs where white breakers flung up a salty spray. Beyond them the firth waters were dark and broad.

Nothing moved in that vast black expanse. It mirrored the star strewn sky almost perfectly, reflecting the dark land and the distant mountain peaks that pointed accusingly at the dark sky. Somewhere north-west of here was where they had caught him, near the old ruins. Ruins he remembered from his youth as a place full of life and activity, now dead and cold as if they had been deserted since the beginning of the world.

He shifted slightly, trying yet again to find a comfortable position. But it was impossible, hanging, as he was, from the tree. He leaned his head back against the rough bark and gazed up at the stars.

A sobbing cry drifted out of the windswept darkness. Somewhere else on the island. He had heard it before, night after night. And still he could not tell if it was another prisoner like him or the unearthly wail of some sea bird. But surely it did not mean they were beginning again. Not yet. They had left, he knew that much; just before sunset he had seen their skin boat crossing back to the mainland. Ruefully he regarded the unhealed burn marks on his arms. They had wrung many a cry from his broken lips, but they had not coerced any answers. It would be a long time before he broke. And before that…

He heard the splash of a muffled oar. From down there, down beyond the cliffs. Out in the firth. Leaning forward as far as his bonds would permit, he strained his eyes. Nothing. All he could see was the dark waters and the mirrored stars. But… what was that?

A dark shape drifting closer. Again he heard the splash of oars. They were returning!

The cry broke out again. He craned his neck trying to see where it came from. This time it was throatier, wilder. He could not mistake it for human, not this time. He heard the fluttering of wings in the night air above him, and something flew down to land in the branches of the withered tree. He thought he saw a dark bird, perhaps a crow, silhouetted against the stars.

Silence fell upon the waters, broken only by the sigh of the wind in the coarse grasses. He looked back and saw no sign of the skin boat he had seen. But now he heard voices, distant, below him. Ruddy torchlight flickered. Someone was coming up the cliff path. Perhaps more than one of them.

He remembered that path from when he had traversed it, hands bound behind his back, urged on by spears. It was a precipitous route, one to be taken with care and caution, even in daylight. The red glow of the torch grew more distinct, then vanished behind the thorn bushes.

At last his visitor appeared.

‘They tell me you won’t speak, foreigner,’ he said.

The tall, gaunt man held high a blazing torch, which reeked of pitch and whose light kept half his face masked in shadow. He approached the tree where Flaminius hung in his bonds, peering curiously up into his face.

Another figure loomed out of the gloom, giving a harsh cry. It was a woman, clad in long black robes, her hair in thick locks that snaked around her like the hair of a gorgon. She danced and capered eerily on the edge of the light, her face in shadow.

The man also wore a long, dark robe, and his beard was long and tangled, and he spoke in the Caledonian dialect of the British tongue, but Flaminius saw that he wore a Roman ring on his finger.

‘I see they have been most… persuasive,’ he added, indicating the marks of torture on Flaminius’ limbs. The Roman wore only the tattered remnants of his clothes, rags that fluttered in the wind. He had been subjected to torture and deprived of food, and all but the occasional mouthful of water, for several days now. But he had not answered their questions.

‘Do you know who I am?’ the gaunt man demanded suddenly, stepping closer. The heat from his upheld torch caused Flaminius to flinch back. ‘Do you have any notion, Roman fool?’

‘Who says I am Roman?’ asked Flaminius, speaking the same language as his interrogator.

The gaunt man sneered, and spat on the human bones that lay heaped around the foot of the tree. ‘You speak our tongue well, I’ll admit,’ he said, ‘but you know little of our ways. Your disguise was paltry, although you went to some trouble having yourself tattooed.’

Flaminius had also allowed his hair and beard to grow. The Caledonian dialect was not so different from the tongue spoken by Drustica, the warrior woman he had encountered on his previous visits to Britain. He had not seen her in some years. She lived in the empire, south of the Wall, and he had been forbidden to enter the province of Britain by the man who governed it, Aulus Platorius Nepos.

‘What was it that gave me away?’ he asked at last.

The man pointed savagely with the forefinger of his left hand at Flaminius’ brow.

‘That!’ he hissed viciously. ‘That brand in your forehead. Only a foreigner would wear such a heathenish mark.’

Flaminius gave him a wry look. ‘The raven brand of Mithras is worn by any of his followers,’ he said. ‘I did not claim that I had not travelled in the Empire. For all you know, I could have been initiated before I returned.’

‘As part of your lying story that you were a travelling oculist?’ the gaunt man spat the last three words out. ‘A transparent ruse. It was plain that you were a spy.’

Flaminius looked mournful. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘You have got more out of me in a few seconds than your servants have over several days.’

‘My name is Dagodubnos,’ said the gaunt man proudly. ‘I am Archdruid of Caledonia.’

He turned and held out his left hand, still holding the torch high in his right, and the black clad woman danced in rings around him, wailing and keening. She never drew close enough for the torchlight to shine in her eyes, which remained in shadow.

Now Dagodubnos thrust the torch into a rusty iron bracket fixed to the side of the tree and left it flaming there. He returned to gaze up at Flaminius.

‘So we come close to the truth, now, do we?’ he murmured. ‘Those fools I sent here were wasting their time. Now I have your admission that you are a spy. A travelling oculist! Pah! We have examined the simples and potions you carried in your chest and pronounced them futile rubbish.’

‘Johannes of Alexandria sold them as genuine medicines,’ Flaminius protested. ‘I’ve tried them myself!’

The Archdruid spat again. ‘Foreign filth,’ he said. ‘Only druidic medicine is trustworthy. Your primitive sorcery will not avail in this land.’

Flaminius grunted. If this Archdruid, so puffed up with his own pride, could be transported in an instant to the grand boulevard of Alexandria, he would sing a humbler song. The hustle and bustle and heterogeneous population, the towering temples and palaces were all a far cry from the stinking wattle and daub huts of Caledonia.

‘Enough of this,’ the Archdruid said. ‘You have suffered much here, from the ministrations of my men, from hunger and from cold. You are shaking. You are unwell. Even if you had your medicines with you, you would not be able to save yourself. Only the secret arts of my folk will help you. But you will be left here to die.’

The woman croaked ominously, echoing the crow that had perched in the tree, and the Archdruid looked approvingly at her. ‘Boduua is keen to scratch out your eyes,’ he added. ‘And that is not all she will remove from your body, if you do not speak.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I suggest you get it over with,’ he said.

The Archdruid drew closer, and peered into those very eyes. ‘Curious,’ he murmured. ‘You do not resemble a fool, even if your attempt at spying in my land was foolish. You would die here?’

Flaminius yawned. ‘I’ve no wish to die anywhere,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not spoken under torture yet. Why should I speak now?’

The Archdruid laughed. ‘You have already confessed that you are a spy,’ he said. ‘In the end, we will have the whole truth. Something brought you here from Rome or Alexandria, or whatever outlandish country it was. Something brought you here in a small boat that disembarked from near the estuary of the Taon. Something brought you up the winding paths from the coast, up to where a hill fort guards the way into the country of the Caledones proper. Where the burnt out ruins of a fort of the foreigners also lie. It was when you began poking and prying in those ruins that my men stopped watching you and intervened.’

Flaminius must have betrayed something in his face, because now the Archdruid nodded triumphantly. ‘Oh yes, you were watched all the time! And it took you some days to reach that spot. Some days of travelling from village to village, bothy to bothy, peddling your foul foreign wares, casting your foul foreign spells over my folk.’

‘If your magic is so powerful,’ Flaminius said conversationally, ‘why do so many of your common folk have such appalling eye diseases? Why don’t the druids cure them with their famous magic?’

The Archdruid shook his head impatiently. ‘We care naught for that rabble,’ he said, ‘and nor do you! We knew from the start that you were a spy. We watched you. When you began your prying, my men snatched you and brought you here to be questioned.’

‘With very little success,’ Flaminius commented. He was cold, he was weary, he was in pain. But when anger kindled in the Archdruid’s eyes, he felt a kind of satisfaction. The man was unsettled by the defiance of this interloper.

‘I know why you came here,’ the gaunt man said. ‘I know very well why you were exploring those ruins.’

‘So you say,’ said Flaminius. ‘Tell me, then. Why?’

The Archdruid studied him. The woman danced and keened, eyes glinting lustfully. The wind moaned. But the Archdruid did not speak for a while.

‘Gold,’ he said at last. ‘Treasure! You’re a treasure seeker.’

‘I would have found gold, would I?’ Flaminius asked. ‘If your men hadn’t descended upon me, and carried me off here? I know where I am, incidentally. This island is well known. It’s no secret to my people. This is where you send all your… problems.’

‘How could you know of it?’ The Archdruid seemed disconcerted, or was it just an act? ‘No one who comes here has ever left.’ He indicated the bones. ‘That is your fate. But first you will talk.’

‘If I’m going to end up like that anyway, what incentive do I have to talk?’ Flaminius asked.

The Archdruid drew closer. ‘A full confession could save you a great deal of unnecessary pain.’

Flaminius pursed his lips. ‘Your men have already subjected me to needless torment,’ he said. ‘How could any more be worse?’ He knew full well, of course, but he was playing for time.

So, it seemed, was the Archdruid. ‘How did you learn about the ruins?’ he asked.

‘Ruins?’ Flaminius said. ‘I knew them before they became ruins. It’s only a few years since Pinnata Castra[11] was a functioning Roman fort, if briefly.’

The Archdruid stiffened. ‘You admit to being a Roman spy?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘You’ve already proved to your satisfaction that I’m not one of your own people. Why should I not have known Pinnata Castra when it was still in use?’

‘You seem to misunderstand the situation you are in, foreigner,’ said the Archdruid. ‘You are a Roman spy and I am here to question you. I am the Archdruid, and you will answer my questions!’

‘You must rate me very highly as a prisoner,’ said Flaminius. ‘If you, the Archdruid himself, feels the need to come and speak with me.’

‘How did you learn about my… about the gold?’

‘Your gold?’ Flaminius said. ‘It’s your gold, you say now?’

The woman wailed and danced away in the darkness. The Archdruid flung out his arms in irritation. ‘You are not here to question me,’ he hissed. ‘You are a prisoner, a captive. And you will answer my questions. How did you learn about the gold?’

‘I didn’t know about any gold,’ Flaminius said. ‘It’s news to me that there was any gold there.’

‘Then why did you come here,’ the Archdruid demanded, ‘from this Alexandria? To work as a, a travelling oculist?’ He guffawed.

‘That’s it exactly,’ said Flaminius. ‘My plan was that I would work hard, gain a reputation, work my way up to a position where I would be treating the family of King Brennos. Then I would be overloaded with Caledonian bearskins and I could make my way to civilisation and sell them at a profit.’

The Archdruid laughed. ‘King Brennos?’ he asked. ‘Brennos is long dead. Your research has been very poor.’

‘Ah,’ said Flaminius. ‘Well, who is high king now?’

The Archdruid shook his head. ‘There has been no high king since Brennos was murdered by men from another people,’ he began.

His eyes narrowed. Flaminius heard a dismal wail from the windswept dark as the woman danced on in the distance. ‘What did I tell you?’ the Archdruid hissed. ‘Do not question me. I am questioning you.’

Flaminius met his gaze and raised an eyebrow quizzically. The Archdruid scowled, and added, ‘Why were you exploring the ruins if you did not know about the gold?’

‘Oh, just poking about,’ he said. ‘I knew it was an old Roman fort. I just wondered if there was anything valuable to scavenge. The villages I’d passed through had had plenty of need for my salves, but they could pay me very little. A roof over my head, some gruel in my belly, no more. It looked like my medicines would run out long before I found any rich customers. Of course, this was before I knew the political situation had changed. Now, if I’d known there was any gold in those ruins… Tell me, how much gold is there?’

The Archdruid went purple.

‘For the last time,’ he bawled, sounding like a doting old man throwing a tantrum, not like a majestic and mighty barbarian druid, ‘Why were you exploring the ruins? Did he send you? Was he planning a double-cross all along?’

—18—

Pons Aelius[12], province of Britain, 14th June 125 AD

Dawn had yet to break, but there was a line of red fire over the distant sea.

With a rumble, the wooden gates of the fort swung open as the two auxiliaries on duty let pass a group of riders. Dust rose in clouds from the ill maintained roadway as the horsemen galloped away across the maroon acres of heather.

For the most part they were auxiliary cavalry from some Thracian troop. But at their head rode two Roman citizens: a tall, craggy faced, olive eyed young man wearing a crimson cloak with all the patrician hauteur of a senator, and alongside him, galloping with equal skill and panache, a woman. They were dressed for hunting, and carried hunting spears and bows.

Auxiliary Trooper Gnaeus Domitius Theodoricus of Trajan’s Own Cugernian Cohort stood watching them in amazement, clutching his long, leaf bladed spear tightly as he followed the progress of the troop into the dawn twilight. On either side of the fort, the long grey line of Hadrian’s Wall stretched away into the gloaming.

‘Where d’you think they’re going?’ he muttered to himself.

‘Get this gate shut,’ growled his comrade, Trooper Egbertus, and Theodoricus put his shoulder to the great wooden struts as they shoved it and shoved it back into place.

With a thud, it settled into place, cutting off that disturbing sight of the endless wilds of barbarian country, beyond the empire. Barbarian country into which had vanished Romans dressed not for war, but for hunting. As the light was cut off Theodoricus scratched at his beard beneath the chinstrap of his burnished bronze helmet. Here was a mystery.

He followed Egbertus up the wooden ladder and onto the observation platform above the gate. The dawn wind whipped at his cloak as he gazed out into the north, but his attention was fixed upon a distant plume of dust that marked the passage of the troopers. He glanced back at the fort, which stood atop a hill which sloped down towards a broad river spanned by the new bridge that give the place its name: Pons Aelius, the Bridge of Aelius Hadrianus. At most times of the year the fort was a sleepy place, with only a small garrison of auxiliaries. But recently it had been bustling with legionaries, Roman officers and even civilian clerks.

The governor of the province of Britain had come north from his summer quarters in Eboracum to oversee the final stages of the building of the Wall. With him was the procurator, up from Londinium[13] in the south. In their train they had brought some genuine Roman eccentrics.

Theodoricus, like his comrade Egbertus, was a Cugernian, a man of Germanic origin within the empire of the Romans, although his tribe had been granted Roman citizenship. ‘What are Romans doing riding out on a hunting trip into the wilderness first thing in the morning?’ he asked of the wind.

Egbertus turned to give him a sardonic grin. ‘You mean Tribune Quintus?’

‘Is that the name of the fool?’ Theodoricus asked. ‘Goes hunting into Caledonian territory in the middle of the night, and takes his mistress with him!’

‘You shouldn’t go around calling the personal aide of the governor Aulus Platorius Nepos a fool,’ said Egbertus. ‘It might get back to him, and then you’d be flogged—if you were lucky.’ He gave sly grin. ‘I won’t say anything, but it’ll cost you.’

Theodoricus grunted. ‘Is that who it is?’ he said, ignoring his fellow trooper’s wheedling. Egbertus had been an auxiliary for almost twenty years. He had survived by his wits, and his ability to turn a profit from the most unpromising situation. ‘And what does the governor think of his aide riding off on a dangerous hunting trip?’

‘Come now, trooper,’ said Egbertus. ‘We all know the Caledonians have been crushed. Their high king is dead, the tribes are now all fighting amongst themselves. Once this wall is finished, an expedition into the north is planned. Maybe that’s why the governor allowed this foolishness as you call it.’

‘An expedition into the north?’ Theodoricus tugged at his red beard. Egbertus kept his ear to the ground. ‘We’re not going to try conquering the Caledonians? They may be quiet at the moment, but they’ll regroup soon enough. And they know those lands; we don’t.’

‘Tell that to the governor,’ Egbertus commented. ‘Word is, he intends to lead an expedition to the fort where the Ninth Legion met their end. Means to raise an altar to their departed spirits, they say.’

‘And this Quintus,’ Theodoricus mused, ‘who we just allowed to ride out into barbarian country. Is he out on a scouting mission?’

Egbertus shook his head. ‘No, he’s going hunting.’

Theodoricus shook his head. Never would he understand these Romans, even if he was a citizen himself. For a moment, he revelled in his favourite daydream of leaving the troop and settling down on his own farm in some colony or other. He’d have a swanky wife from Rome, and barbarian slaves to order about. Never again would he stand in the freezing wind on night duty on a fort partway along Hadrian’s Wall, straining his eyes for… for what?

If Egbertus was right, and he had an irritating habit of it, the Caledonians posed no threat. So why did Theodoricus find himself on gate duty so often? He wished he could go off on hunting trips, but if he could, he’d at least have the sense to remain south of the Wall, where it was comparatively safe. The Caledonians might have been neutralised as a military force, but there were no patrols north of the wall, nothing to stop robbers attacking unwary travellers…

‘Hunting?’ he said. ‘What possessed this Quintus to go hunting north of the Wall?’

Egbertus gave a chuckle. ‘You should pay more heed of barrack room gossip, trooper,’ he said. ‘It was all over the garrison when I went on duty. At the banquet the governor held last night, Quintus’ wife—and she is his wife, not his mistress—dared him to ride out into the heather next morning on a hunting trip. Said she’d go with him if he was man enough to try it.’

Theodoricus was shocked. ‘They allow women to join them at their banquets?’ he asked. ‘Noble women? Roman women?’

Egbertus shrugged. ‘This Publia is a freedwoman of some sort, I should think,’ he said. ‘Not born a Roman citizen, you can be sure of that. She’s no shrinking violet, she rides like a man and hunts like a man, seemingly. And she’s got Quintus round her little finger. She humiliated him in front of the guests and the governor—a man I know was there, on guard duty, he saw everything, heard it too.’

Theodoricus leant on his spear and peered out into the gloaming. ‘What a fool,’ he said.

He’d never let a woman join him at a feast. A drunken woman was a shameful thing, and they had their ways… And he’d never let a woman trick him into agreeing to such a dangerous course… Of course, there had been a girl once… It was because of her that he’d joined up.

‘At least he had the good sense to take a troop of Thracians with him,’ he added after some thought.

‘At Publia’s request,’ said Egbertus. ‘After Quintus vowed by the standard of the Sixth Legion that he would go a-hunting in barbarian country, right in front of the governor so he couldn’t back down, his woman seemed to change her tune. She said she would go with him, and see that they brought back the biggest boar north of the Wall—but she asked Platorius Nepos if he would assign them a detachment of auxiliaries.’

‘Seems she had some sense,’ said Theodoricus. ‘But I’d have dragged her back to my quarters by her hair and thrashed her black and blue if she made a fool of me in front of the governor, not pandered to her silly whims. Women! Pah!’ He spat, and the spittle whipped away in the wind.

Egbertus shook his head. ‘You know as much about women as you do of Romans,’ he said disparagingly. ‘For all that our tribe has the citizenship.’

Theodoricus was aggrieved. The boredom of sentry duty watching a country that posed no threat exacerbated his annoyance. ‘What do you mean?’ he barked.

Egbertus grinned. ‘You can’t let a woman make fool of you in front of a superior officer—then just thrash her and leave it at that. No one would respect you. If you make a drunken boast, you fulfil it the next day, however foolish.’

Theodoricus growled. ‘Romans aren’t like that,’ he said. ‘That’s the German way. The barbarian way, they would tell us. Romans are more civilised. They’re always telling us we ought to be...’

‘Civilised or barbarian,’ Egbertus went on, ‘a man is a man. And he can’t make a fool of himself in public like that, not without proving his manhood afterwards. So Quintus has ridden out on a quick hunting trip. He’s taken troopers with him, so even if he does meet northern warriors, he should be safe enough. He’ll find this boar or bear or lynx or aurochs or whatever—the hills are full of them—and bring it back at his pony’s tail. It’ll make a fine tale for the governor to hear…’

‘I can’t believe the governor is allowing it,’ complained Theodoricus. ‘He could lose an important man.’

‘An important man who stands to lose face,’ said Egbertus. ‘Rome is full of senator’s sons like Quintus. If the governor loses him, some other fellow will be there to take his place. But if Quintus returns from his rash hunting expedition…’

‘He’ll have a tale to tell the family back in Rome,’ said Theodoricus.

‘But more important than that,’ said Egbertus, ‘the governor will be able to demonstrate to the emperor that the Caledonians truly are crushed. And then he’ll get permission to take his own journey into the North. And think what a reputation that will bring him.’

Theodoricus wagged his head slowly. ‘So it’s all to the good for the governor,’ he said. ‘He must be a cunning man… But how do you know all this?’

Egbertus shrugged. ‘I don’t,’ he admitted. ‘But if I was in his situation, it’s what I do.’

Theodoricus grunted. ‘I still say that Quintus should have thrashed his wife.’

The heather swathed hills north of the Wall were bleak, barren and deserted at this time of morning. Only flocks of carrion crows disturbed the skies as Quintus rode in quest of prey. At least there had been no barbarians lying in wait.

In his mind, the Wall was like the wall round his parents’ estate on the edge of Rome. Inside all was peaceful and tranquil; outside was nothing but danger. As a boy, he had often climbed to the top of the garden one evening and watched the bustling street outside, and seen some terrible sights which had persuaded him to stay indoors and work hard at his studies.

And now here he was, no longer a beardless boy but a tribune and aide to the governor of Britain, still working hard, and yet he had allowed himself to be inveigled into going beyond the Wall. Hadrian had created an empire like his parents’ garden on a cosmic scale: inside the Wall all was safe, outside lay only sudden death for anyone fool enough to set foot there. And yet they had ridden so far that the Wall was no longer visible if he looked back; only an endless vista of dark hills could be seen, mirroring that which lay on either hand.

‘Don’t look back, husband,’ Publia called from her mare, raising her voice over the thunder of the hoofs of the auxiliaries’ pony. ‘We’ve not sighted that beast you vowed to catch. Think about that, my love, and then we can go back.’

‘Yes, my dear,’ said Quintus through gritted teeth, and turned to survey the road ahead of them.

They had remained on the road since leaving the fort, not wanting to abandon it for the trackless heather while it was still dark and they could easily lose their way. The road was more of a native trackway than a Roman road; it was in a bad way, too, not having been maintained since Agricola had been governor, what, fifty years ago? That was when the retreat from the northern regions had begun. Hadrian had seen the sense to call a halt, drawn lines in the sand, built walls, known when to say, “No more!”

Quintus wished he had known when to be so firm. He should never have married Publia in the first place. She was Roman, that was true, but hardly of colonist stock, despite her olive skin and dark hair. Really, he had little idea about her family when he thought about it. She said she was an orphan, having lost her parents during the Brigantian Rising before the Wall was built. They had met in Eboracum where she had been staying with an aunt, and one thing had led to another. He hadn’t even written home to tell the about the wedding. When he did go home, he knew his father would disapprove, his mother even more so. His mother had always bullied him. But Rome—and mater—was more than a month’s journey away. Publia was right here, at his side.

As they reached the crest of a rise he lifted a gauntleted hand and called for a halt. Publia sawed at her reins and hauled her pony round to face him; the auxiliaries formed up into a square surrounding them.

The first red line of the rising sun had broken the eastern skyline.

‘Why are we stopping, husband?’ she asked him, her voice a little cold. ‘We’ve not yet sighted so much as a hare!’

‘That’s just why,’ he said to her. He turned to look at the massive Thracian in charge of the troop. ‘No good riding aimlessly into the heather, is it, decurion? We need to find hide or hair of our quarry first. And now the sun is rising there will be more hope.’

‘Aye, sir,’ the Thracian replied, his oiled moustaches bristling. ‘I’ll send two of my best hunters to look for tracks.’ He gazed up at the hills as they became more visible in the dawning light. Firs and pines grew in the valleys some way from their current position. ‘Looks like good hunting country over there,’ he said, and issued orders to his men.

Soon two of them were riding towards the trees.

—19—

Bodotria Estuary, Caledonia, 7th June 125 AD

Flaminius had come ashore a week earlier. Bidding farewell to the crew who had brought him to a secluded bay near the mouth of the Taon, he had jumped into the shallows, hauling his ass with him, and waded, waist deep, dragging the honking creature through the surf and up onto the shingly strand. Crags lowered and beetled above him. A path led inland through sparse grass, and he took it without a single glance over his shoulder.

The ass he had bought in Gesoriacum honked and hawed, tried to stop to chew at a stand of sea holly, and he struck it angrily. It struggled against the restraining rawhide reins and he hauled back, refusing to budge. Weighed down as it was with his bags and chests, it soon gave in, and they trotted placidly along the sandy path, up through a gully in the cliffs which was thick with sloe bushes, splashing alongside an eager young stream, finally coming out onto a stretch of grass fenced by walls of trees. Through gaps in the forest as he led his ass further inland, he caught glimpses of the distant blue smudge of the mountains.

This was the first time he had set foot in Britain since the governor banished him, years ago now. Thinking about it, it could only be two or three. But so much had happened to him since then. His time out in Egypt had changed him. He had contracted fever, he had fought in the arena as a gladiator, he had travelled across the swamps of the Nile Delta and the endless sandy wastes of the Libyan Desert… It seemed a long time since he was last here, and of course, he had been a younger man then. Rash and impetuous. His time in Egypt had taught him caution.

He was clad in the garb of a travelling oculist, and the bags and chests that festooned his bad tempered beast of burden were filled with the salves and tools of an oculist’s trade. It was standard disguise for a commissary man going undercover amongst peregrines and barbarians, and he had received the necessary wherewithal from his friends who had smuggled him into this land at the back of beyond. Although he was in Britain, he need not worry if Platorius Nepos’ men might find him. This quiet, seemingly peaceful land was Caledonia—Britain north of the almost completed Wall.

Turning a corner in the path he stumbled to a halt. His nostrils had caught a whiff of something that belied the apparent peace. Rotting flesh, burnt wood.

The stench drifted through the trees from somewhere to his left. Unwillingly, he led the ass off the main track and into the undergrowth. After some time forcing his way through a prickly undergrowth of holly he stumbled out into a clearing where the blackened timbers of a burnt hut stood stark against the blue sky. Heaped on the ground in front of the ruin were what looked like piles of old sticks. But Flaminius didn’t need the clouds of angry flies that rose at his approach to tell him they were the bodies of the hut dwellers.

He went no further. Clearly the man and woman who lay with their throats slit, surrounded by slaughtered children and goats, had been dead for some time. Whoever had done this had moved on. But there was no point in tempting fate. Quieting the complaining ass, he led it back to the main path.

He had been hoping to ply his adopted trade while he made his way inland to his intended destination. But this would not be possible if tribal warfare had denuded these lands of their inhabitants. For a while he considered abandoning the ass and the eye medicines it carried, moving on without them to slow him down. But if he did that he would have no cover. A man of obvious foreign origin travelling as an eye doctor in Caledonian territory was one thing, a welcome thing he knew; so he had been assured by his friends. But a tribeless man found wandering in without any good reason would be recognised as a spy immediately. He would never get as far as the ruined fort.

That night he camped in the middle of another stretch of forest, having seen no one all day, only a few more burnt out settlements and overgrown fields or straying flocks. The next morning he continued, following the narrow trails through the woodlands, going always inland and uphill whenever it was possible. For some time he followed the banks of the river, knowing that it would lead him closer to his goal.

Pinnata Castra stood in a curve of the Taon. He remembered it from his first and last visit, five years ago. He had left not long before the Ninth Legion fought their final battle[14]. Ever since then the fort had been deserted.

It had already been abandoned once, but the governor at the time had had it rebuilt while he was negotiating with Brennos, king of the Caledonians. Flaminius remembered the governor’s concubine Medea. He shied away from that memory. It was a long time since her death, but the memory still pained him.

He turned his mind to Drustica. What would the warrior woman be doing now? He had heard nothing of her since he was banished from the province. He remembered her defiant glare, her ‘I am a Roman citizen!’, her people’s halting attempts to build a villa in the Roman style in her settlement at the further end of the Wall…

On the evening of the second day, he found a settlement where tribesfolk still lived, and where there was a demand for his trade. Speaking in a lingua franca combining words from Latin, Greek and the Celtic tongue these barbarians spoke, he traded his skills, attending to weeping, crusted, inflamed eyes in return for a pot of honey mead and his fill of hearth baked oaten bannocks, and the guest’s sleeping place by the fire in the main hut. He left the following day and went on with his seemingly aimless wanderings.

The folk said that the villages nearer the coast had been burnt by men from the north, but they had been forced back by their own lords who dwelt up in the hills. And he found more settlements along the track as he went on, thriving places that showed no sign of the ravages of war, filled with poor folk, many of whom suffered from eye complaints.

Word spread far and wide of this quiet magician who would accept bed and board in return for his vital services, and his progress was slowed by a sudden influx of patients. He began to imagine he could make a living like this, turn his back on a life of espionage and do some real good for once. Then he remembered that he was no longer a member of the commissary. He remembered Probus’ death. He remembered that he was a man alone. A man in search of answers.

At last he reached the plain between coast and mountain, where he hoped to begin finding them. A hill fort stood on a height above him, one he remembered well from his last visit to these parts, but it was not where his attention was drawn.

He led the sulky ass over the heather towards the overgrown ruins of a Roman fort. As he approached the Decuman Gate, he was almost overcome by an overwhelming sense of loss. The fort lay in stark ruin beneath the sky that now threatened rain, bleak and desolate. It was only five years since he had last been here but it looked as Pinnata Castra had been abandoned since the days of the Trojan War.

As he led the ass through the broken down gateway, he looked up as a croaking crow or raven shot overhead, turning to sail in a spiral, wing feathers stretched like the fingers of grasping hands. It vanished behind the further wall with a derisive caw.

He stood in the middle of overgrown devastation. Everywhere he looked were signs that the fort had been fired by the victorious Caledonians, then left to rot. Grass and heather swamped the place, and what had once been rows of barracks were unidentifiable hummocks. Birch trees grew in profusion. It was hard going making, his way further in, almost like forcing his way through a small but overgrown forest.

At last he found himself on a narrow path that led along what had once been the Principal Way of the fort. It might as well have been a beast track; he could see it was seldom used. As he followed it to the right, towards what had been the site of the governor’s headquarters, he heard something that made him turn.

By the time he had done so, they had ducked back into cover, whoever it was he had briefly seen out of the corner of his eye. But a birch tree shivered where there was no wind, and he felt that eyes were watching him from deeper in the bushes that grew where once had stood the Praetorium. He was about to investigate when the ass began heehawing as if it had gone crazy. It took a while to quieten it and by that time whoever had been following him was clearly deep in cover. He cuffed the ass, and it brayed at him sullenly.

He turned round. Before he could take a step forward, dark figures were rising up from the bushes and birch trees on every hand. He dropped the ass’s reins and raised his hands. As he did so, the angry creature broke free and went galloping down the Principal Way until one of the dark figures turned and flung a spear after it with lethal accuracy. The ass fell, the spear jutting from its side.

Flaminius turned calmly to the men who had appeared. Tall, solemn, barbaric figures, their skins blue with tattoos and woad, they surrounded him with a hedge of spears.

And that was when it began.

By night he had been taken south, bound securely and slung over the back of a pony. After many hours of painful travelling he smelt the salt tang of the sea. By then it was night, and he saw little as they led him down a wooded slope. Then they came out into the open and the cold wind from the estuary hit his bruised and battered face, and he saw the spreading water below, and far out to sea, an island. The island. The one he had heard of. And that had been his destination.

He had been here for some days—and nights—bound to this withered tree. He was starving, in desperate agony from their tortures. But now that the Archdruid himself had come looking for him, he felt a glimmer of hope.

He was important. He mattered to them. He was a mystery they were eager to solve. And it would not be long before his true significance became apparent to this man who even now peered up at him as the dawn light glinted in his eyes.

‘Did who send me?’ Flaminius said at long last.

The Archdruid’s eyes narrowed. Mist swirled around him, and little could be seen of the island now that the sun had risen. In the distance, Boduua capered and wailed. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. Someone must have sent you. Only one man, other than I, is aware of the gold’s location now.’

‘Perhaps more than one,’ said Flaminius. ‘But no one sent me. I came of my own accord.’

‘Who are you?’ the Archdruid demanded uneasily. ‘Why have you come here? It’s not because of the gold, is it?’

‘It’s because of the gold,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘But it’s not simple greed that brought me here. I hoped to solve a riddle. A riddle that has been troubling me, on and off, for five years. Since I was first in these parts. I’ve happened upon fragments of the mosaic from time to time, but I’ve never had enough of them to piece together the whole picture. Now I think I am close to the truth.’

The Archdruid gave a cracked laugh. ‘You’re close to your death,’ he told him assuredly. ‘How many more nights can you stand, hanging here? You’ll die—unless you tell me the whole tale. Who you are and why you came here. You’re after my gold, you say?’

‘Ah, but it’s not your gold, is it?’ Flaminius taunted him as the morning light grew. ‘You found it.’

The Archdruid looked uncomfortable. ‘It was a gift from the gods,’ he said defensively. ‘And none but the gods and those who walk with the gods would ever have found it.’

‘You barbarians must have been too fearful to set foot in the fort after it had been burnt down,’ said Flaminius; ‘fearful that the spirits of the dead Ninth Legion would kill them. All but folk like you, druids, who don’t believe in such superstitions.’

The Archdruid hissed. ‘You know too much of our mysteries, spy,’ he said angrily.

‘What?’ Flaminius said. ‘Are you afraid I’ll reveal you to your people as the frauds and charlatans you are? I’ve seen bigger and better conjuring tricks in Egypt than you could ever hope for, and seen through them. There are no gods. What god would trouble himself with this benighted world?’

‘You are very full of bragging words for a man who is at my mercy,’ the Archdruid said. ‘I came here because I thought you were willing to talk. I wanted to know who else is aware of my treasure. I found that gold not long after the battle. Only I was brave enough to explore the ruins, and I found more gold concealed there than I had ever seen at Brennos’ court. Strange, outlandishly wrought. Not like Hibernian gold. Not like Roman work either. I have never seen its like. I used it—some of it, a fraction—to make myself the only real power in Caledonia when the tribal wars began. But now, if my secret is known, I must make plans to transport it to a new hiding place. And yet I cannot move the gold by myself so others must help me. And so they must die…’

The Archdruid was talking to himself. Flaminius, who had only been half listening, his attention drawn by sounds from below, interrupted him suddenly. ‘Did you come here alone?’ he asked.

Still the wild woman capered and keened in the gloaming, drawing closer until she was just at the edge of the torchlight. She waited, watching the Archdruid.

Dagodubnos looked up. ‘Two druids brought me here,’ he said. ‘They wait below with the coracle. Of course I was accompanied by Boduua, too. Why do you ask, foreigner?’

‘Don’t worry, they didn’t put up much of a fight,’ came a booming voice. ‘We killed them at dawn. The boat is at anchor below. We saw the Archdruid’s coracle cross last night, so we put the plan into effect. We’d better get you down from here before anyone on the mainland notices us and comes to investigate.’

An armoured figure loomed up out of the mist, followed by two men in the garb of sailors and headed for Flaminius. ‘Never mind me,’ he said. ‘Get the Archdruid!’

Hampered by his long dark robes, the Caledonian darted for the cliff, shouting for Boduua. But as he passed her, the woman stretched out a long, bare leg. Dagodubnos landed on his front in a dazed heap. Boduua tore off her wig, revealing the long, dark, lustrous locks of Rhoda. She laughed.

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ she said with a throaty chuckle, gazing down scornfully at the feebly struggling form. ‘Boduua couldn’t make it. She went for a swim….’

‘Someone help Rhoda with the Archdruid,’ rapped out the armoured man, addressing the sailors. ‘And get the tribune down from that tree.’ He drew closer.

‘Hello, sir,’ said Junius Italicus with a grin.

—20—

Spoor had been found by the two trackers. Now the riders were careering along a narrow defile, with Quintus in the lead, Publia riding just behind. The plan was to flush the beast from the coverts. Then a few of them would proceed on foot, with boar spears. Quintus had hunted boar before, but only in Italy. He was sure the Caledonian variety would be more terrible than even the savage beasts he had faced in the woods of Umbria.

At last they reined their mounts at a point where a narrow valley split off to one side. One of the Thracians jumped down to investigate the ground. He looked up.

‘No sign of tracks here,’ he reported. ‘Must have gone to ground.’

Publia threw an impatient look at Quintus. ‘We’ll never find any quarry with this many riders,’ she said. ‘Send half of them back, and we’ll not make so much noise.’

Quintus studied her as she sat her pony, an irate expression on her cold, beautiful face. She made a magnificent sight, even though she had lost her hat in the ride and now her long dark hair hung down unconfined. She looked more than half a barbarian, regardless of her olive complexion and the Latin she spoke, which was pure enough, despite something of a provincial accent. Quintus had not spent long enough in Britain to be able to pinpoint it, but he knew she had not grown up in the City.

‘We’re risking our lives as it is,’ he said, ‘riding north of the Wall. It was your idea to bring so many men. Besides, were we to split our forces now, either group would be put in danger.’

He peered up at the heights that loomed above them, still misty despite the risen sun.

Publia looked about her. ‘Has anyone seen any sign of any Caledonians?’ she asked. ‘They don’t dare come so close to the Wall. And they’re too busy fighting amongst themselves to trouble a few hunters. My concern is for the quarry. You will look like a fool, husband, riding back into the fort to admit to the governor that you have come back emptyhanded…’

‘I will not return with nothing to show for this expedition,’ he flared. ‘I will come back with enough meat to stock the governor’s pantries until Saturnalia. I said I would, didn’t I? My people always keep their word.’

Publia leapt down from her pony. Quintus was often embarrassed by her wilful, mannish ways, but she had proved impossible to tame, he reflected, as she quested about, studying the ground. Did she think she was a better hunter than the Thracians he had brought with him?

She bent down amidst the bushes, brushing a dark lock of hair from her olive face. ‘No sign of boar tracks?’ she asked. ‘Here’s more spoor, and not yet cool!’ She pointed at a pile of dung she had been examining. ‘And here are tracks—leading in that direction.’ She pointed at the narrow defile.

Quintus turned censoriously to study the trooper who had first examined the ground. He stood by his pony now, flushed. The decurion bared his teeth at the man.

‘Call yourself a Thracian?’ he barked. ‘A woman is a better hunter than you!’

‘There was no spoor there when I looked,’ the man complained, and his decurion reached down to cuff him.

‘Enough, decurion,’ Quintus said. ‘Very well, we will ride up the defile.’

‘All of us?’ Publia exclaimed. ‘Our quarry will hear us coming and go to ground. A third of the men must remain at this end, the rest will follow us.’

Without waiting for a reply, she rode towards the mouth of the defile.

Uneasily, Quintus rode after her. He heard the troopers talking to each other in guarded whispers. Talking about him, he was certain. The decurion should do something about them. But he had left the decurion with the main group of men.

He should do something, then. He should do something about Publia. He should have done, months ago. Curbed that wilful streak. But she was like a wild lynx of the hills. Sometimes, despite her fluent Latin and her knowledge of Roman ways, he felt as if she was… something alien. Barbaric.

She was riding at the head now. Most Roman ladies were content to be taken from place to place in litters borne by slaves. At first Quintus had admired this independence in his wife, but more and more he feared the disapproval and censure he was bound to meet in society when he returned home. Marrying a wild wench from Britain rather than a sweet, submissive Roman girl. The kind who would mature into the household managing harpy who was the Roman matron, able to skin a slave at a glance, and lash a husband into submission with no more than her tongue... Publia had seemed refreshingly different. But now he wondered if she was entirely too different.

They had ridden up into the hills, where mist still hung. Heather swathed the slopes but trees grew in greater and greater profusion. They were entering ancient woodland, the forest that had been growing in these islands when Caesar first set sandaled foot here, long ago; when Claudius made his brief visit, then left the business of conquest in the hands of governors and subordinates. Before Suetonius Paulinus slaughtered the druids of Mona and broke the back of resistance.

Rumours said that druids still lingered in these mysterious parts. No wonder, since they had never been fully quashed. It was only a few years since rebellion had flared—not here, but south of the Wall, stretching as far as Londinium before it was put down. People said the druids had been at the back of it.

At a sudden clatter from the slope, he reined his pony, peering doubtfully up into the swirling fog. The air was wet, and he coughed and wheezed as he searched the mist for signs of life. Seeing nothing, he rode on after Publia. She had almost vanished into the mist that had now seeped down onto the path ahead.

‘My dear,’ he cried, ‘do you think we should go so far?’

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Will you turn and run while your men are here to witness your disgrace?’ she called back loudly. Quintus looked back and saw the auxiliaries plodding doggedly after them.

He regarded her again and shook his head. ‘No, wife, of course not,’ he said in a lower voice, riding after her. ‘But I fear we will find no sign of this boar.’

She looked at him strangely. ‘We must keep going,’ she said. ‘You swore a vow on the eagles that you would bring back your quarry.’

‘I was…well, I had drunk a little too much of the governor’s Falernian,’ he said, half-jokingly. ‘Platorius Nepos keeps a good cellar, but his slaves should water his wine more. No wonder I made such a rash boast. No man should be kept to boasts made in wine.’

‘You were still drunk when we set out,’ Publia said, as she allowed him to ride up alongside her. ‘But you know that you cannot go back…’

‘So I keep hearing,’ Quintus replied. ‘Very well, let us run this quarry to ground and despatch it. You found the spoor. Where is it now? Surely it is time we dismounted and took to boar spears.’

‘We’re still on the trail,’ Publia warned him. ‘Wait until we find the signs that the boar is close. Then send men forward on either hand and they will drive it towards you.’ Seeing a look on his face, she added, ‘It must be you who spears the boar, after all. Don’t worry, husband. I will be at your side when the spear goes in…’

At a sudden clamour from behind, Quintus sawed at his reins and turned in his saddle. The men behind him had also halted, and were looking back into the mist fearfully. From some distance away—it was hard to judge in the mist, but Quintus thought it must be at the far end of the defile—came the ring of blade on blade, cries of anguish, then eerie silence.

He turned again. Publia was riding on ahead, deeper into the defile.

‘Where are you going, you barbarian bitch?’ he shrieked. ‘Didn’t you hear that? My men are under attack!’

‘Sir!’ said one of the auxiliaries, riding forwards. ‘They have cut off the entrance of the defile. We’re trapped!’

By now Publia and her pony were no more than dark shapes in the mist.

‘We’ll ride forwards,’ Quintus told the Thracians. ‘It has to come out somewhere! To go any other way would be suicide.’

Men came galloping out of the mist behind them, and at first Quintus thought it was the enemy, but then he recognised them as auxiliaries.

‘Sir!’ yelled one of them, the decurion. ‘We’re under attack!’ He had lost his helmet and his right hand hung uselessly at his side; he guided his pony clumsily with reins bunched in his left hand. ‘It’s the Caledonians…!’

The air whistled and the decurion fell from the saddle, brainpan bashed in by a sling stone. More whistling sounds followed and a rain of slingshot hurtled through the misty air. Quintus caught sight of dark figures approaching.

He jabbed his heels into his pony’s flank, and shouted, ‘Ride! Ride up the defile!’

His men charged after him as he galloped up the path that Publia had followed. But as they went, the defile grew narrower, bushes choked the path. It began to slope upwards. Crags swam into view out of the mist, cutting off their path. There would be no escape this way, not without some climbing.

Sitting her pony in the shadow of one crag was Publia. She watched calmly as her husband rode out of the mist.

‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘There’s no boar here.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘There never was,’ he said accusingly, riding closer. ‘You planted that spoor. You wanted us to come up here. But why?’

Blue painted barbaric men appeared from the mist, most of them naked to the waist, wearing breeches of variegated colours, their hair limed and spiked, carrying in their hands spears and swords and shields of brass. They set upon the few remaining auxiliaries.

‘There was always a boar,’ said Publia, as her husband looked about him, eyes wide in fear. ‘A big Roman boar.’

As he turned to look questioningly at her, she lunged forwards, and he felt a thud from his chest and looked down. A dagger hilt protruded from it. He realised the folly of coming up into the hills poorly armoured.

‘But we were only hunting…’ he gasped, then fell backwards.

Publia’s pony nickered softly, exchanging greetings with the riderless beast that had borne her husband. His huddled form lay upon the wet grass beneath the crag. She looked up. The black dots of carrion crows circled in the mist above.

‘Good work! We slew them all.’

A bearded figure was riding towards her. A cloak covered his body, its hood all but hid his face, but she recognised him at once.

‘I thought you would never get here,’ she said. ‘That boar spoor was old! No wonder the tracker discounted it. I would have thought you, of all men, would keep to the plan. And my tribesmen?’

‘We met with some trouble, girl,’ the bearded man admitted. ‘Now you’ve rid yourself of one inconvenient husband, and we have ponies and auxiliary armour. As soon as it looks like the right moment, we will ride south.’

Painted men were methodically stripping the dead auxiliaries of their armour, others were calming the ponies and gathering them together further down the defile. She exchanged greetings with a chieftain of the tribe, then turned to the man who had masterminded the entire enterprise.

‘We must attack as soon as we can,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve been with the governor’s staff for days. They are complacent, convinced that the Wall will protect their province from now until the end of time. But Platorius Nepos has seen everything he needs to. If we are to take him prisoner, now would be the opportune moment.’

The bearded man nodded. ‘Very well. We will give them enough time to worry, to think that perhaps your husband will not be returning. Then, as night is falling, we will ride back. They will be waiting for us.’

He lifted up a helmet he had taken from a dead auxiliary. ‘They will welcome us into the fort. We will receive a warm welcome! But they will soon see the error of their ways.’ He placed the helmet on his head.

‘I think it would be better if you were to be Quintus,’ Publia said thoughtfully. ‘You have much his build. Let the tribesmen play auxiliaries.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded, removed the helmet and flung it to a passing warrior. Then he dismounted and went over to Quintus’ body. The Roman’s eyes stared sightlessly at the misty sky. Publia watched in satisfaction as the bearded man stripped the body and donned the Roman’s rich hunting garb.

—21—

As Flaminius was helped up onto the swaying deck of the Liburnian galley moored in the firth, Rhoda clutched his wounded arms.

‘Look what they’ve done to you!’ she said. ‘You’ve been hurt, grievously hurt. I just don’t understand why you wanted the men to wait so long before they attacked.’

The deck creaked and swayed as more men came aboard. Junius Italicus’ voice boomed: ‘We were waiting,’ he said, joining them as the sailors hustled a struggling form aboard, ‘Because that was what the tribune told us to do.’

‘I said from the start,’ Rhoda told him; ‘the Archdruid is not going to come to speak with Flaminius. He’d send his men to get the truth out of him, and they wouldn’t be nice about it.’ She surveyed his burns and cuts with horror. ‘And I was right!’

‘So was the tribune,’ said Junius Italicus.

‘I kept them waiting long enough,’ said Flaminius. ‘I didn’t crack, whatever they did or threatened. In the end, they sent to the Archdruid, and he came. And that was when we were able to put our plans into effect.’

‘That druidess put up a fight when we jumped her,’ Rhoda murmured. ‘I thought the Archdruid would suspect something after I took her place…’ She broke off as Dagodubnos was hustled into their midst.

The Archdruid looked around bitterly. ‘A trap,’ he said bitterly. ‘But futile. When they learn I have been taken, my people will come after me. They will punish you severely for this.’

‘Good of you to remind me,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus. He turned and bellowed to the captain of the vessel, who had been waiting patiently in the stern since they had come aboard. ‘Let go aft! Time we were under way.’

As the ship crept across the waters of the firth, leaving the shelter of the far side of the island that had shielded it from watchers ashore, Flaminius took comfort in a cup of wine. He surveyed the Archdruid, who stood surrounded by crewmen as the daylight grew.

Rhoda tore off the filthy robes she had taken from the druidess, her expression one of wonder tinged by horror. She had not known what to make of Junius Italicus when Flaminius first introduced him. His journey from Dacia at Probus’ bidding had been delayed due to a late snowfall in the Alps, and he had reached Rome in time to learn of Probus’ death and what had caused it. Flaminius and Rhoda had travelled north with him. Knowing that they would be arrested if he entered Britain openly, Flaminius and Junius Italicus had remained offshore in the boat they had requisitioned with Junius Italicus’ commissary insignia. No one had confiscated that.

Rhoda, meanwhile, had journeyed in disguise to Londinium. Here she had learnt that since the death of the high king the only power in Caledonia belonged to the druids. It had ever been thus, but the Archdruid’s resources were better by far than could easily be explained.

When he had been in Britain with Probus, Flaminius had heard about the island where captives were taken for questioning. He decided that it was time he spoke with the Archdruid.

Junius Italicus studied Flaminius. ‘Are you ready to start questioning the prisoner, sir? Should I take him down into the cabin? I’ve got one of my men heating the irons already.’

Flaminius shook his head. He looked down at the rolling green waters. ‘Bring him to me here. I’ll speak to him on deck.’

Junius Italicus scratched the back of his neck, puzzled. ‘Bring the brazier on deck, sir?’

Flaminius shook his head and unconsciously rubbed at his arm. ‘I don’t think we’ll need any of that,’ he said.

The crewmen dragged the Archdruid to the stern. At a sign from Flaminius they let go of him and withdrew. The Archdruid looked at Flaminius, then over the rail, as if judging his chances.

‘I wouldn’t try it,’ said Flaminius conversationally. ‘We’re a long way from land, and you would drown well before you could swim back. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good if your corpse was found washed up on the shore. And it wouldn’t do you any good.’

‘What do you want of me?’ said the Archdruid. He spoke in a high, tremulous voice that was a stark contrast with the arrogant tones he had used earlier.

‘I’ll be asking the questions this time,’ Flaminius told him. ‘I want to know all about you. Your power. Your gold. And your links with the previous governor of Britain, Falco.’

The Archdruid stiffened. ‘I know nothing of anyone called Falco.’

‘You can do better than that,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Don’t go thinking that just because I’m a Roman I know nothing about conditions outside the empire. I have travelled both within and without Rome’s lands. I was in Pinnata Castra with Falco. I am one of the few survivors of the Ninth Legion.’

The Archdruid’s face grew pale. ‘No one survived of the Ninth Legion. Brennos’ warriors slaughtered them.’

‘You know that that’s not true,’ Flaminius said. ‘Men survived. I for one, because I had urgent business in the south. Brennos’ men slaughtered the most part of the Ninth Legion, it’s true. But that wasn’t the plan, now was it?’

The Archdruid shook his head. ‘No. We struck a deal. A standard was to be raised by the Romans, and this was to be taken as a sign for us to retreat. Falco made a bargain with us…’ He broke off.

Flaminius rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Go on…’ he said encouragingly. ‘You were doing very well.’

The Archdruid scowled. ‘I’ll not speak with you,’ he said. ‘Torture me. Do your worst.’

Flaminius gestured to where Junius Italicus and his men stood by the mast, watching uneasily. ‘You have no hope, you know,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go.’

The Archdruid was silent for a while. Junius Italicus paced across to Flaminius. ‘We don’t have time for this, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him down into the cabin and singe that beard of his until he squeals.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Go back to your men, centurion,’ he said. ‘The Archdruid is a gentleman. He’ll help because he sees that it’s the right thing to do.’

Reluctantly Junius Italicus returned to the mast, where he stood talking in an urgent undertone to Rhoda. Flaminius smiled at the Archdruid.

‘We don’t need any unpleasantness, do we?’ he said. ‘Now, you’ve told me what I already know. You were plotting with Falco. I know all about his conspiracy; more than you perhaps. After this easy victory, his men would proclaim him emperor and he would have stripped Britain of her legions and marched south to Rome. He also promised that you and your people would live peacefully without further trouble from the Romans. But there must have been more to it than that. The men of the Ninth Legion who would proclaim Falco emperor—what was in it for them? Glory? In my experience of the Ninth, hard coin meant more to the men than any honours when it came down to it. Now, you’ve become very rich very suddenly, haven’t you? How did that come about? You’re a power in the land now. You’ve bought that power, I think.’

The Archdruid gazed into space. ‘After the Ninth was slaughtered, only a few escaped south to Eboracum, Falco among them. Once we had burnt it, no Caledonian would go near the ruins of the foreigners’ fort. My people are highly superstitious.’

‘But you’re not,’ said Flaminius, ‘for all that you exploit their superstitious fears. You and the other druids lack the superstitions of the mob.’

The Archdruid spat over the side. ‘Most druids are as terrified as any peasant—when it comes to a place where so many foreigners lost their life. But I did not fear. I knew that I would learn the truth of what has made Rome so powerful if I searched amongst the ruins. So I did. And I found it—the source of your power.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘Gold,’ he said. ‘That’s what you found. Gold that once belonged to the king of the Dacians.’

‘I had been exploring the ruins for some days,’ the Archdruid recalled. ‘Alone. No one would come with me, but it was better that way. It took a long time to dig my way into what was left of the headquarters building. At last I found the chest. It had escaped the flames. Nearby I found a ring with a key attached. Falco must have been about to open the chest to provide bribes for the men who would hail him as emperor. But it seems he dropped the key when he had to leave in a hurry. So it lay until I found it.’

‘And so you helped yourself to the gold,’ Flaminius said. ‘I had almost found your secret when your men took me. They were less fearful than others, it seemed, to follow me into the ruins.’

‘You allowed yourself to be captured,’ the Archdruid said accusingly. ‘It was a trick—so you could take me prisoner in turn?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘I knew enough to realise that the gold must have been there, and you had become very rich and powerful very suddenly. So I allowed myself to be taken, but did not speak. I knew that you took a personal interest in the more recalcitrant prisoner, it’s in the Commissary reports. So I waited until you came, and so did my men, out in the estuary, until the coracle of the Archdruid crossed the firth. Then they struck.’

On the last word, Flaminius fitted actions to words, and he snatched hold of the ring key the Archdruid wore on his finger. The Archdruid tried to struggle, but Flaminius forced him against the side and held it aloft.

‘You’re a cunning man, foreigner,’ the Archdruid said bitterly. ‘Very well! I used the gold to make myself more powerful. I mean to unite the Caledonians again…’

Flaminius was examining the key. It bore an inscription in Roman numerals. He grinned harshly. ‘Here’s proof,’ he said, not looking up, and the Archdruid went silent.

‘Proof of what?’ he said at last. ‘Give me my key back.’

Flaminius looked up. ‘It’s not your key, is it?’ he said. ‘This is Roman workmanship. This inscription, you see it? A number, corresponding with the coffer that it opens. Of the kind carried by an imperial courier. When the coffer containing the gold was brought into Britain by the courier, it will have been logged, and its sender’s name was recorded in the files kept by the procurator’s office in Londinium.

‘We’re very finicky for such things, although you need high security clearance to inspect the contents of a courier’s coffer. Whoever sent the gold knew that. Knew it would be safe to send it using the courier system. A more effective method of smuggling does not exist inside or outside the empire. But there are regulations, of course. If I could find the relevant file, I would know who sent this coffer to Britain. And then I would know who was at the heart of the conspiracy that claimed the life of my friend and mentor.’

The Archdruid looked bewildered. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘The gold was Falco’s. Now it is mine. Give me my key back. You said you would let me go if I spoke.’

‘The gold was sent to Falco,’ Flaminius said. ‘I know Falco was part of the conspiracy, but he’s been a good boy in recent years. What I need to know is who provided the gold. Who took it from the hoard of Decebalus the Dacian king, who kept it hidden, then tried to use it to help Falco become emperor. Whoever it was is still alive, and able to work against the man who was on his trail.’

He beckoned Junius Italicus over, and the centurion lumbered to join them. The Archdruid gave him a frightened look.

‘Time for the hot irons, is it, sir?’ asked the centurion. ‘They’ll be scorching by now.’

‘Our friend has told me all I need to know,’ said Flaminius. ‘This key,’ he added, slipping the ring onto his finger, next to the signet ring Probus had once worn, ‘is the key to the whole conundrum. All we need to do is take a trip south, and consult the procurator’s files. We’ll have to go there undercover. The governor will have us both arrested if he knows we’re at large in his province…’

‘While she was in Londinium, Rhoda heard that the procurator has gone with Platorius Nepos to a fort on the Wall,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘They’re celebrating the completion of its construction. By all accounts, the procurator goes nowhere without bringing his paperwork with him. But it won’t be easy gaining access to them. Is that our next move, sir? Sail south, to the province?’

Flaminius nodded. Junius Italicus turned his gaze on the Archdruid. ‘But what do we do with this?’ he added.

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I said I’d let him go if he spoke.’

‘It’s a long way to the shore, sir,’ said Junius Italicus reprovingly. ‘And our mission is urgent. We can’t waste time.’

‘So we’ll drop him off here,’ said Flaminius, laying a hand on the Archdruid’s arm.

Dagodubnos started. Before he could break free, Junius Italicus seized him by his legs. Together they hauled the screaming old man to the side and flung him overboard.

—22—

Pons Aelius, 14th June 125 AD

That evening, Theodoricus joined Egbertus on sentry duty at the main gates. They saluted the auxiliary guards going off duty, exchanged greetings, then as the others marched off to their barracks took up their positions on the observation platform overlooking the main gates.

‘Any word of the missing tribune?’ Theodoricus had asked idly as the guards turned to leave.

The two men exchanged glances and then the taller of them shook his helmeted head.

‘Not a sign, friend,’ he said, pausing to lean on his long oval shield. ‘He’s vanished into the heather and a whole troop of men with him.’

‘We’ll have to keep a weather eye open,’ said Theodoricus.

‘You won’t see him,’ said the other auxiliary shortly. ‘There’s been word that himself is planning on delaying the march north, though, so we can’t complain.’

They saluted and marched away.

Egbertus scowled at Theodoricus and led him up the ladder to the observation platform where they both received a view of the rolling heather north of the Wall. Far off in the distance, clouds rolled atop the peaks of hills, but the moorland was bare of any life except occasional crows and a few deer.

‘You made a fool of yourself there,’ Egbertus said. ‘The whole fort knows that Tribune Quintus has not returned. Where do you spend your day?’

Theodoricus shrugged. ‘Sleeping,’ he said. ‘I like to get my head down when I’m not eating or on duty.’

Egbertus shook his head. ‘That’s not the way to get on in this troop,’ he warned him. ‘You’ve got to keep your ear to the ground, not your head to the bolster. Keep up with the barrack room gossip! That’s how you learn what’s happening. That way you can turn things to your own advantage. That way you can survive until retirement age, settle down on a plot of land somewhere.’

Theodoricus glanced over the parapet. Although dusk falling, he could see that the tracks were visible in the dirt leading to and from the gates—the one on the right being the ‘out’ gate, the one on the left the ‘in’ gate. The only fresh tracks were those of Quintus’ troop riding out. They came out of the right hand gate and vanished into the distance much as their owners had done.

Again he shrugged. He had no notion of settling down just yet, but he was younger than his fellow trooper. ‘How does it benefit me knowing which chinless senator has got himself in trouble in Caledonia?’ he asked. ‘Quintus was a fool. He let his woman talk him into going for a ride in dangerous country, and it looks like he’s paid the price, his woman with him. The only downside is all the good troopers they took with them. That’s what I object to.’

He’d known some of the men who’d gone with Quintus, drank with them or gamed with them or gone with them to the mud huts that passed for brothels in this district.

‘It benefits you to know whether or not the governor is going to go ahead with this expedition north,’ said Egbertus. ‘For the moment we’ve all got to be on our best behaviour, us troopers. While the governor and all his staff are getting under our feet, we’ve got to make sure our harness is polished until it shines, or we might end up on a charge.’ He nodded significantly at the boss of Theodoricus’ shield, which was beginning to tarnish. ‘When it’s just the few of us, and no Roman officers, we can get away with all manner of little dodges, turn a blind eye to any traders who want to pass through unrecorded, if they’re willing to make it worth our while. But until the governor departs…’

‘I see your meaning,’ said Theodoricus, a little guiltily.

He’d been too tired on turning in to notice the state his equipment was in, and when he woke up he had forgotten to polish it. Egbertus was right; while the governor was in the fort, they had to tread carefully.

‘What if the governor has really got the jitters?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if he decides an expedition into Caledonia isn’t auspicious?’ He uttered the last word with a sneer, imitating the accent of the high born Roman.

‘He’ll find something else to do, won’t he?’ muttered Egbertus. ‘Got to keep strutting about looking important or people won’t think he’s doing his job.’

‘So you think he’ll leave?’ Theodoricus hoped so. It was a strain, having the staff of the governor and the procurator in the fort, and he caught himself thinking with nostalgic fondness back to the days before they arrived.

‘He’s a law unto himself,’ Egbertus said, ‘but I can’t see him freezing his knackers off up here for no reason.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But he seemed very determined, from what I heard. If he can build this altar in the old fort where the Ninth were slaughtered, it would look good for Rome.’

‘It won’t look good if whoever ambushed Tribune Quintus and his woman kills the governor too.’ Theodoricus might not take the same interest in what was going on as Egbertus, but even he could see that it would be a bad idea. ‘Maybe he’ll give up and go back to Eboracum and leave us in peace.’

‘Some hope,’ said Egbertus. ‘More likely he’ll summon a legion or two and march north when he’s got more men. If we’re really unlucky, we’ll be going along in support.’

Theodoricus shuddered. He would never admit it to Egbertus, but he had a mortal dread of the wild Caledonians. In some ways they reminded him of the Belgic Gauls he knew back home, but while the Gauls had settled down long ago and become as Roman as anyone in the empire, these Caledonians remained in the Age of Bronze, the era the bards sang of, the age of heroes. Which was all very well in songs and stories round a blazing hearth on a winter’s eve, but knowing that he was surrounded by such folk gave him the shudders. On patrol he had seen settlements where the chieftains still kept the severed heads of their slain. And the rumour of the druids sent a chill through him worse than the east wind.

‘Let’s hope that the governor sees the sense in putting his expedition off until another day,’ he said. ‘After all, the Wall is almost fully completed. Though they say the last few stretches are still behind schedule.’

Egbertus nodded. ‘So you know that much at least,’ he remarked. ‘There’s hope for you yet, trooper. Maybe you’ll survive into old age after all. It’s all about keeping one step in front of the Romans in charge.’

Theodoricus decided that, before he sought his bunk that evening, he would go down to the nearby shrine of the god Antenociticus, and make an offering after praying for Platorius Nepos’ speedy departure—whether to the north or the south was of no matter to him. Without, he added mentally, taking the auxiliary troop with him. Glumly, he stared out into the gathering gloom…

Horses were galloping out in that darkness, hurtling down paths through the woods in the valleys. The drumming of hoofs mingled with a jingle of armour. Dark figures rode those dark horses through that darkness. Men in armour. Auxiliary armour.

They were still some way from the Wall, which lay liked a silver glimmer in the light of the newly risen moon. For now, the trees obscured the open heather that led to the foot of the Wall, and much of the moonlight. Only occasional dim shafts pierced the tree cover and glinted from the men’s armour.

At their head was a woman.

Publia rode with grim determination etched upon her cold face, gripping the reins tightly as her steed galloped onwards. Directly behind her rode the bearded man, dressed in Quintus’ distinctive clothes. She flashed him a cold smile, seeing the long line of tribesmen following them, woad scrubbed from their faces as best they could, uneasily wearing stolen armour.

They reached the edge of the trees. The bearded man raised a hand high to signal a halt, and the riders obeyed, dismounting and leading their horses into the shadow of a grove of withered trees. Publia also dismounted, her unshod feet hitting the peaty ground without a sound, and she went to help her bearded companion to get down.

‘Thank you, young woman,’ he said tetchily. ‘I’m not so old I can’t dismount by myself.’

‘As you wish,’ said Publia. ‘Let us go to the top of the hill and scout out our final route.’

They passed the tribesmen, who were sitting in silence, eating unfamiliar rations from the auxiliaries’ saddlebags while shivering in the cold. But Publia had told them to light no fires. They were close enough to be seen from the nearest fort, and they did not want to risk being seen. The attack would depend upon surprise if it was to succeed.

They picked their way up the side of the heather clad hill, reaching the crest of the rise after a few minutes. Here Publia knelt down and her companion with her, both peering out at the scene that lay before them.

The heather rolled towards the horizon. Not a tree impeded it. Only the grey line of the Wall as it stretched beneath the moon broke up the monotony. Publia gazed up at the massive fortification, wonder in her heart. The Wall extended as far as the eye could see, even in daylight, with a small turret every mile, and the silver gleam of men marching along its parapet like stars fallen to the horizon. To the east it reached as far as the black waters of the moonlit sea.

The work of the Romans resembled the buildings of giants, titans of some former age—and yet she knew that this Wall had been flung up over a space of a few years. She had seen its earliest beginnings. It had cut through the lands of the northern tribes without any consideration for their traditional territories. If the Caledonians ever united, they would be hard put to it to go any farther south.

Such an ambitious undertaking was not Publia’s plan, however. Due south, a larger fort stood. That was where they would strike, at first light. Disguised as her men were, and with the guards anticipating Quintus’ return, it would be an easy matter to gain entry to the fort. Then they would see some hard fighting, and she knew that the forces garrisoned there would outnumber them. Many of the tribesmen would die. It had better be worth it.

She said as much to her companion. His teeth glinted in the darkness.

‘It will be worthwhile,’ he assured her. ‘The governor and the procurator are both there. We will strike, and we will fight, and we will seize them. When both governor and procurator are at our mercy, then and only then can we hope to achieve our goal. I’ll have my enemy at my mercy.’

‘How can you be so sure that he’s the man?’ she asked, glancing at him. He seemed obsessed by the idea, as if it was an evil spirit that plagued him.

‘I can’t be!’ said her companion. ‘At least, not yet. But once they are in my hands, then we will see. All that matters is that your tribesmen strike hard and strike fast. There are both Thracian auxiliaries and Roman legionaries in the fort. They will put up a hard fight, but we will have the advantage of surprise. They will not be expecting an attack from Tribune Quintus and his woman.’ He rapped tinnily on his stolen breastplate. ‘Once we have the governor in our hands, we will have what we came for. As long as our plan comes together.’

‘You realise it hinges on so much that is beyond our control?’

‘It’s a gamble,’ he admitted. ‘But the stakes are high.’

‘I don’t like the idea of sacrificing the tribesmen,’ she told him frankly. ‘Will it be worth their lives?’

‘Oh, their sacrifice will be well worth it,’ he said coldly.

Heartsick, she turned her gaze back at the distant walls and towers of the fort. Waiting for sunrise. Waiting for the sign to attack.

—23—

German Ocean, 15th June 125 AD

Southwards the galley sailed as the moon rode the night sky. Soon they would reach the estuary of the Tinus River, up which they would travel until they reached the bridge Hadrian had had built, beneath the hill where stood Pons Aelius, the fort that was Platorius Nepos’ current residence.

Here they would go ashore, and Junius Italicus would use his influence as commissary centurion to gain entry to the fort, and make a request to see the files of the procurator. If, as was rumoured, he travelled with his entire archive, things might go smoothly. If not, they would be forced to travel the three hundred or so miles to Londinium, in which case they would return to the ship and sail there. All they had to worry about was Platorius Nepos’ reaction. He had banished both Flaminius and Junius Italicus from the province. If he saw them before they had accessed the files, things would get very difficult indeed.

Flaminius stood in the bow, leaning against the rail, peering into the darkness, listening to the thrum of the cordage and the plash of the oars. They must be almost there, he told himself. To his landsman’s eye in this darkness, it was hard to tell; the shore was almost indistinguishable from the dark waters, although the skipper told him he could make it out.

Flaminius’ nostrils twitched and he turned to see Rhoda had come up from her cabin. She tottered across the deck towards him. He smiled sympathetically.

‘I’m no sailor either,’ he confided, as she joined him.

Rhoda shivered in the sea breeze. ‘Then why are you up on deck?’ she asked, giving the waves a bitter look. ‘I hate it out here. I’m sure that I will fall over the side at any moment.’

Flaminius laughed. ‘But you’re a Greek, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Greeks love the sea. It’s we Romans who would rather build roads everywhere so we can stay on dry land.’ He gripped the rail firmly. He knew exactly how she felt.

‘But you’ve been out here for hours,’ she complained.

Flaminius nodded darkly. ‘I’ve had some thinking to do.’

‘We’re almost there, surely,’ she said. ‘I don’t just mean we’re almost at the estuary. I mean, you have the best clue we could ever hope for.’

Flaminius was stroking the ring key that he wore, his fingertips tracing the numerals stamped into the shaft. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ he said shortly, dropping his hand to his side.

‘So why the anxiety, sweetheart?’ Rhoda challenged him.

Flaminius turned to face her. ‘Firstly, I’m liable to be arrested, if Platorius Nepos recognises me.’ As Rhoda started to protest, he raised his hand for quiet. ‘I have full faith in your ability to disguise me,’ he went on. ‘But it’s still a possibility. And Junius Italicus is just as unwelcome in the province. But you must realise how much this means to me.’

Rhoda nodded quietly. ‘Yes, I understand. Probus was your friend.’

Flaminius looked at her, startled. He had never seen the Chief in those terms. The grizzled, thickset old schemer had never been one to evoke the finer feelings. But Flaminius had known him through five long, arduous years, known him through thick and thin, known him since he was no more than commissary centurion for the province of Britain.

‘My friend…’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps comrade would be a better name for him. But wasn’t he your friend?’

Rhoda made a non-committal shrug. ‘He paid well,’ she said. ‘He bought people’s loyalty, in my experience. That’s when he didn’t use blackmail. If he had not been serving Rome, I think he would have made a good thief. He would have risen to the top of the underworld in no time, until someone slipped a dagger into his ribs. That’s what happens to successful criminals…’ She broke off, realising what she was saying. ‘Sorry,’ she said inadequately.

Flaminius understood. He was reminded of the old story about Alexander the Great and the pirate; when questioned as to why he led the life he led, the pirate had said, “What I do with my small ship you do with a fleet, and yet I am called a robber and you an emperor.”

‘You’re right. He became too powerful for… someone. Someone so influential he was able to gull the emperor himself into having him dismissed. Someone…’ He broke off, and peered into the night, muttering, ‘Surely not. No, that’s impossible. And yet…’

Rhoda studied him. ‘What is it?’ she asked urgently. ‘Have you worked out who had the Chief murdered?’

Flaminius looked at her.

‘All I can be sure of is that someone close to the emperor is working against him,’ he said. ‘Hadrian was betrayed by a friend. We know that already. Falco was an old friend of his, and look what he was involved in.’

‘Falco?’ she said. ‘The previous governor of Britain? Is that who you mean?’

‘It was back when I first knew the Chief. He uncovered the plot, and I was instrumental in foiling it. The beginning of my career in the Commissary. But I think I’ve learnt something that escaped even Probus.’

‘About the gold, sir?’

Flaminius turned to see Junius Italicus. Moving very quietly for a man of his bulk, he had joined them on deck. The sea wind ruffled the feathers of his helmet plume. He carried an amphora and three wine cups. The latter he handed to the other two, and filled them from the amphora, which he tossed negligently over the side once he had emptied it. Then he took a wine cup from Flaminius and sipped it with relish.

‘Drink up, sir,’ he urged them. ‘It’ll keep you warm, if you must stand out here in the cold.’

‘You’re becoming a drunk,’ said Flaminius in tones of reproof. ‘You were never like this when I last knew you.’

‘The pressures of duty, sir,’ the centurion said owlishly, ‘must be alleviated somehow. I heard you discussing the Chief when I came up the companionway.’

Flaminius sipped his wine. It was rough and a little sour, but it reinvigorated him after the time he had been standing out here.

‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about him a great deal.’

Junius Italicus nodded broodingly. ‘I’ve thought about him as well,’ he admitted, ‘since he recalled me from Dacia. By the time I got back to Rome it was too late. Here’s a libation to his shade, wherever he is.’ Junius Italicus poured a little wine on the deck. ‘Always liked a drop of wine, he did,’ he added.

‘But he had powerful enemies,’ Flaminius said.

‘Ah,’ said Junius Italicus, clapping Flaminius on the back, ‘but we’ll find them out soon enough, won’t we, sir? If we can provide the emperor with the proof, we’ll restore Probus’ good name and see his enemies crucified.’

Onwards they sailed, the three companions drinking in the bow as the oars splashed in the sea below and the sail bellied in the sea wind. The dark shadowy shape of the coast loomed before them, an indistinct line of blackness between the starry sky and the dark sea that mirrored it. They were drawing closer to the land now, and the helmsman in the stern heaved on the rudder as they turned about, until the shore lay directly before them.

The skipper materialised from the gloom. ‘We’re bearing down on the British coast,’ he told Flaminius. ‘Soon we’ll be reaching the Tinus Estuary, sir. We’ll weigh anchor there…’

‘We will not,’ Flaminius said impatiently. ‘We’ve got to get to Pons Aelius straightaway. No delays.’

The skipper laughed. He was a Roman citizen from one of the tribes of the Gaulish coast, a scrawny man with a wisp of beard, but he laughed like a bear. ‘We’ll do as I say, sir,’ he said complacently. ‘You know your job and I know mine. I know the sea, aye, and the estuary too. We’ll wait for the turn of the tide before we enter the river mouth. Else we’ll run aground on a sandbank, you mark my words. And then the imperial treasury will have to buy me a new ship.’

Flaminius flushed, feeling foolish. A few years out in Egypt, with responsibility for the security of one of the richest provinces in the empire, had changed him. He had matured, grown in confidence and insight. But the ways of the sea remained a mystery to him.

He felt a foreboding. For some reason he could not put into words, he knew that they had no time. They had to reach the fort before dawn.

‘Very well, captain,’ he said regretfully. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge! We don’t want to run aground. But we must get to Pons Aelius as soon as we can, you understand?’

The skipper agreed, and took his farewell of his passengers, returning to the stern. Rhoda touched Flaminius’ arm.

‘Don’t feel too bad, honey cake,’ she said. ‘We’re all anxious to get there. But we can afford a delay of a few hours. The governor isn’t going anywhere.’

‘Come back down to the cabin, sir,’ Junius Italicus urged him. ‘You need to get some rest. And get out of the cold, by all the gods.’

Shortly afterwards, they were sitting in the cramped conditions of a cabin that had been given over to them by the skipper. Flaminius drank deep of his wine as the light of the oil lamp flickered crazily back and forth across the cabin as it swung from its chain. How much longer would they have to wait? The sooner they got this over with the better, he thought.

Rhoda asked him about their previous time in Britain.

‘That was a difficult one,’ Flaminius said reflectively. ‘It was then that Londinium was burned. Luckily the procurator’s palace escaped the worst of the fire, or we would have no hope of success today. I uncovered a plot against the province, but Romans were also involved. The procurator of that time was at the heart of the conspiracy.’

Junius Italicus took up the story. ‘Flaminius deserted, after he was attacked by auxiliaries in the procurator’s pay. I didn’t know what was going on myself. I learnt later that he had joined up with the very rebel army that was working against the province!’

‘It’s the best way to vanish,’ Flaminius said, ‘if you can pull it off. But in the meantime I joined the auxiliaries at a fort some way along the Wall. Gauls, they were being suborned to join the rebel army, which was gathering in the mountains of the Ordovices. The druids were at the back of it…’

‘The Archdruid? The one who you flung over the side?’ Rhoda asked.

But Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe there was any connection,’ he said. ‘Corvus, the procurator, was descended from Gaulish druids, who went underground long ago. I don’t know if they had any links with distant Caledonia. There was a druidic prophecy of a Gaulish empire, it seems…’

‘But they chose Britain as the place to begin their uprising,’ Junius Italicus added. ‘It was from Britain that the druids first came.’

‘Romans and druids, working together,’ Rhoda mused. She shivered. ‘It’s a horrible thought. But isn’t that what happened before? In Caledonia?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘Falco did a deal with the Archdruid, it’s true. I’d never thought there could be a connection. I should have asked the Archdruid….’

‘But how did you, a Roman citizen, join the Gaulish auxiliaries, and then penetrate the conspiracy?’ Rhoda asked.

‘I had help,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘You should know the virtues of a good disguise. You must remember you asked me about this marking when you saw it.’ He pulled down his tunic top to show the barbaric blue tattoo pricked into his chest. ‘Not all the Britons are opposed to Rome. There was one who assisted me... A girl.’ He broke off.

Rhoda snorted. ‘I might have known,’ she said with a laugh.

‘I thought I’d never have a chance to see her again,’ Flaminius mused. ‘I thought I’d never return to Britain again. And now I’m here, I’ve been so taken up with my work I never thought of her until now.’ He turned to Junius Italicus. ‘Tell me, whatever became of Drustica of the Carvetti?’

Although the first light of dawn was glimmering in through the hatch, the commissary centurion had been dozing. He started and shook himself, then asked Flaminius to repeat his question. When the tribune did, he grunted, and scratched himself meditatively.

‘Oh, her. I remember you two were close,’ he said with a leer. ‘No, I’ve not heard from her in a while, sir. Lost touch after I was kicked out of Britain, same time as you were. When I was working a desk job in the Peregrine Camp, I read a few of her reports. But she’s not had much to do with the Commissary recently, as far as I know, although at one point she was one of our top civilian agents. Word was she got married…’

—24—

Pons Aelius, Province of Britain, 15th June 125 AD

As dawn rose in the east, suffusing the heather with its lurid red light, the tribesmen tightened the girth straps of their ponies, checked their equipment, placed helmets firmly on heads and gripped spears and shields in gauntleted hands. Guiding their mounts with their knees, they trotted from the grove across the heather towards the cracked old trackway.

Publia crouched over her horse’s neck, willing the stallion to gallop faster. They had come so far, they were almost there. The road to vengeance had been long and winding, more a native trackway than a Roman road. Great injustices had been committed against her people by the man they hoped to find within the fort that loomed on the skyline.

The fight would be savage, many of the tribesmen would die. Roman subjects and citizens would die. She felt more than a little pang at this. But she knew that the result would justify any evil. She had learnt that during her time within the empire. But now she was outside it, beyond the massive abutments that marked the end of civilisation. And barbarians rode with her.

Men had gone hunting the night before, and now the carcase of a deer hung on poles between two horses. As the troop rode up onto the trackway, the riders of these two galloped forwards until they rode between Publia and her companion, who wore Quintus’ red cloak.

‘The guards will see that our expeditions has been a successful one,’ she remarked, ‘even if we don’t bring back the promised quarry.’

They rode up the trackway, their ponies finding the going easier now, and soon the Wall filled the entire horizon. The early morning sun glanced from the armour of men on the parapet of the fort, flashing like lightning until Publia had to turn her gaze away. But onwards she rode, undeterred.

Theodoricus yawned, and stretched as well as his armour allowed him. It had been a long night, and now that it was morning he was tired and aching, and hoped only for the relief guard. Would they never come? Despite the morning sunlight, he was chilled to the bone after a night on the parapet. From time to time he and Egbertus had marched a short way up and down the Wall. More than once one had covered for the other while his comrade snatched a few minutes sleep while leaning against his spear.

The night had been silent but for the sough of the wind amongst the heather. It was as if nothing lived beyond the Wall, as if it was some spectral land of death of the kind his people told legends of, back home. It had swallowed up Tribune Quintus and his woman, that much was for sure. He and the men he had taken with him on his ill-fated and ill-advised ride…

‘What’s that?’ said Egbertus urgently, leaning forwards. Theodoricus started from his reverie, and glanced at his comrade in puzzlement. The auxiliary peered out from between two crenellations as if he had seen something out there. Theodoricus felt a chill hand of foreboding. Were the Caledonians massing against them? Had the attack come at last?

But when he followed Egbertus’ gaze, his heart leapt.

Riding up the track through the heather was a troop of auxiliary cavalrymen. At their head were two riders, a man in a red cloak, and a woman. And behind them two auxiliaries rode, bearing between their mounts the carcase of a deer!

He leant his spear against the parapet and slapped Egbertus on the back. ‘They’re back,’ he said. ‘Quintus has come back!’

Egbertus gave him an appraising look. ‘You thought he wouldn’t return?’ He was beaming. ‘Of course Tribune Quintus has come back. When the governor hears of this, he will gather his cohorts to march north to the site of the Ninth Legion’s slaughter, and build the shrine he vowed to their shades.’

‘And if the gods smile upon us poor troopers,’ Theodoricus said with a laugh, ‘he’ll leave us behind to man the fort.’

Egbertus laughed in return. Both men felt a shadow lift from their souls. Partly it was relief at seeing Quintus return when it seemed that he had been murdered somewhere in the darkness north of the Wall. Partly it was in anticipation that the governor would depart and their sleepy posting would return to its slumber. But also they felt a strange joy that the superiority of the Romans had once again been proved.

Quintus had ridden out on a seemingly rash hunting expedition, but now he had returned. And so Rome would triumph wherever she went in the world. It would not be long before all Caledonia had been reconquered, the Wall given up as a frontier, and Rome would rule this island from shore to shore…

‘Come on, trooper,’ said Egbertus as the riders drew closer. ‘We’d better go down and open the gate.’

The wooden steps boomed to their sandaled feet as they trotted back down to the ground level of the gatehouse. Here they propped their spears against the side of the arch and Theodoricus and Egbertus both lifted up the massive bolt that locked the ‘in’ gate, then put their backs into opening the two doors.

The reek of moorland filtered in, a peaty miasma of corruption, redolent of dank bogs and murky streams. But with it came the light of day, illuminating the interior of the gatehouse for the first time since Quintus rode north.

At last the doors rumbled to a stop. Revealed in the open archway was a view of the moors rolling towards the horizon, desolate and dark. Galloping triumphantly up the track towards them, armour glittering in the light, were the auxiliary horsemen.

The clatter of hoofs on the broken stones of the track grew louder, a drumming like the pounding of blood in Theodoricus’ ears. As the riders drew closer, Egbertus picked up his spear and stepped outside.

‘Just a formality, sir,’ he called up to the cloaked rider at the head of the troop. ‘But can you give me the password?’

A sword flashed in the sunlight. Blood sprayed from Egbertus’ throat as the crimson cloaked rider cut him down.

Seeing that the cloaked man’s bearded face was the face of a stranger, Theodoricus turned to run, to sound the alarm, but as he did so, Publia galloped past him. Her sword flashed once in the sunlight as it sliced straight through his neck.

Leaving the carcase of the deer lying beside the dead troopers, the tribesmen galloped under the massive arch of the gatehouse, bursting out into the fort beyond, brandishing lances and longswords as they thundered into the light…

The fort was aligned on a north-south axis. Like everything built by the Romans, its construction was very precise. Due south of the gatehouse, a neat gravel street led between three rows of barracks blocks, straight up to the headquarters building, which the auxiliary prefect had yielded up to the visiting governor.

The street was quiet at the time of the morning, with only a few auxiliaries on their way to take up guard duty on the wall. Seeing the horsemen riding through the gate, they made the same mistake as the troopers on the gate.

‘Tribune Quintus!’ shouted one. ‘The tribune returns from his hunting!’

A spear whistled through the air. For an instant it jutted from his chest, thrumming, almost as if he had grown a new limb. Then he spread his arms akimbo and fell flat on his back.

‘Attack!’ shouted another auxiliary, turning to run. ‘We’re under attack…!’

His words were cut off as Publia rode him down.

Other auxiliaries were visible on the parapets of the fort, gathering around the gatehouses to left and right, on a line with the headquarters. They stared at the scene of confusion in horror. Without awaiting orders, they began to rain the street with arrows. But they succeeded only in hitting semi-armoured auxiliaries as they ran out of their barracks in response to the shouts of alarm.

More armoured figures appeared from the headquarters building. They stopped in their tracks on seeing horsemen racing down the street, cutting down men on either hand, spitting them on lances, or trampling them beneath their horses’ hoofs.

One of the newcomers, a tall, scarred centurion with a grim face, barked; ‘Mutiny! It’s a mutiny! They auxiliaries are in league with the druids again, I’ll wager. Call out the guard!’

Men of the Sixth Legion flooded out of the barracks south of the headquarters building. Many had served in Britain during the rebellion of the Gaulish auxiliaries when Londinium had gone up in flames. Only a protracted campaign, which delayed the construction of the Wall for several months, had successfully put down the mutiny. The legionaries attacked any auxiliaries they saw.

Already combatting what they took to be their own comrades, the Germanic auxiliaries of the fort found themselves fighting on two fronts now that the Roman legionaries were also attacking. Confusion grew as Germans attacked Romans. Someone set fire to one of the barracks blocks. Thick choking black smoke began to billow into the air.

Inside the headquarters building, a tall man in a senator’s toga sat behind his desk, listening calmly to the garbled report of a youth in tribune’s uniform.

Aulus Platorius Nepos liked to cultivate that old fashioned Roman gravitas for which his fellow citizens had once been famous. He looked on in unspoken disgust at the pimply youth of eighteen who sprayed spittle as he spoke, and reminded himself that he had been a young tribune once in his career.

He held up a hand for quiet. ‘Enough, tribune,’ he rasped.

Rising, he went to the stand where hung a silvered cuirass and a military belt from which hung a short sword. He clicked a finger at a legionary orderly who stood to attention by the door, and the man hastened over to help the governor armour himself.

‘Even over your frenzied gabbling, tribune, I can hear that the fort is in a state of conflict. Let us get to the point. You say that the auxiliaries are mutinying?’

‘Yes sir!’ said the young tribune. ‘I didn’t see how it began, but there are cavalry fighting in the Decuman Way. And other auxiliaries are fighting men of the Sixth outside this very building, sir!’

The orderly had finished strapping the governor into his armour, and now Platorius Nepos himself took up his helmet from where it sat on the desk and put it on. The orderly fussed with the chin strap but the governor struck his hand away. ‘Let a man put on his own helmet,’ he growled.

‘Sir!’ said the tribune urgently.

‘What is it, man?’

‘What do we do, sir? We’ll be murdered by them!’

Platorius Nepos tightened the chin strap, half drew his sword from the sheath, then thrust it back in with a satisfying rasp.

‘Do?’ he said in a voice to match. ‘Why, we will do what we did when the auxiliaries rose up against us last time.’ Most of the Gaulish troops had been replaced by Thracians and Germans—men with no connections with the druidic culture of Britain. ‘We will punish them, young man. We will punish them.’

The door burst open and in hurried another frightened figure, a portly man with a cast in one eye, clad in the toga and wearing the silver ring of a man of the Equestrian Order.

‘Governor!’ bawled Titus Sidonius Placidus, procurator of the province of Britain. ‘Men are fighting outside! Are the barbarians at our very gates? I demand an explanation! Had I known that conditions would be so bad I would never have joined you on this expedition! The Wall is finished, you told this office. Well, sir, I find that the Wall is by no means complete, despite having repeatedly exceeded its budget! And now it seems that it is inefficient, too! It is supposed to protect us from the barbarians, and… look!’

He pointed dramatically out of the door. In the marble walled hall beyond, legionaries and mutinous auxiliaries were fighting savagely. As they watched, several men broke free from the fight and ran towards them.

Sidonius Placidus gave a high pitched shriek.

The skipper brought them in at the turn of the tide, and the galley entered the estuary to find it quiet at that time of the morning. The oars rose and fell with a chorus of splashes as the rowers guided them upstream. On either bank the land was as desolate as the moorland north of the Wall, with occasional stands of trees.

From time to time, stone walled settlements came into sight, belonging to the native Brigantian people, surrounded by stone walled fields where goats or cattle grazed or crops grew. The landscape was placid, but Flaminius felt nothing but bleak despair.

Drustica had found herself a husband. This news had brought on a black mood, blacker than he had felt since he found Probus’ charred remains in the ruins of the House of the Satyr. He remembered Probus’ own words. If she truly loves you, she’ll wait…

But she hadn’t waited. She had never loved him. Those years in Egypt that he had spent dreaming of her… it had all been meaningless. A hollow illusion.

As the river led into the interior, winding first one way, then another, Junius Italicus joined him in the bow. ‘Another half hour and we’ll be at Pons Aelius,’ he said. ‘It will be a short walk up the hill to the fort. After that…’

‘After that, we stand a good chance of learning who is at the back of all this,’ said Flaminius. ‘This ring’—and he brandished it meaningfully—‘with the key upon it is the key to unlock the mystery.’

Junius Italicus gave a heavy sigh. ‘Only if we can get our hands on the original documentation. The procurator may be able to help. But we must get past the governor first, and for all we know the records were burnt in the rebel attack, when the procurator’s palace was fired.’

Flaminius pounded his fist into his palm, glaring out at the passing waters. ‘They’d better not have been,’ he muttered. ‘Otherwise we’re finished. And Probus will never be exonerated.’

The galley rounded a headland. The river’s broad waters flowed between hills on either side. Spanning the river was a wooden bridge. From it a stone road wound up the hillside, heading towards the gatehouse of a fort that dominated the entire area.

It should have been a reassuring sight; a tangible reminder of Rome’s power in the province. But as the oars splashed and the galley drew closer, Flaminius saw a pillar of thick black smoke towering from the centre of the fort, and down the drifting wind floated the distant clash of arms and the roar of embattled men.

Book Four—The Londinium File

—25—

Pons Aelius, Province of Britain, 15th June 125 AD

The auxiliary attacked.

As Sidonius Placidus sprang clumsily backwards, inadvertently stepping on a fold of his cloak, the young tribune thrust himself in the way, his short sword flashing in the light from the hall. The clash of blade on blade rang out in the confined space of the governor’s office.

Sidonius Placidus fell flat on his back. As steel clashed above his head, the procurator crawled to the shelter of the desk. Here Platorius Nepos stood, coldly watching the fight between the tribune and the auxiliary like an emperor at the Colosseum. Now the orderly had joined them, reinforcing the tribune with his own sword.

‘Get up, man,’ Platorius Nepos growled impatiently. ‘You look ridiculous.’

The governor was not looking at Sidonius Placidus but it was clear who he was addressing. Holding onto the marble topped table for support, the procurator rose shamefacedly to his feet, dusting down his toga.

‘Something must be done,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You should call your guards!’

The auxiliary fell to a sword thrust from the orderly. But the young tribune was also down, sitting with his back against the wall, looking in incredulity at the bloodstained hand he held to his chest. He lifted his head and looked for the governor.

‘Sir,’ he breathed. ‘I need a med…’

He vomited blood and his head rolled back to rest against the wall, his sight-dimmed eyes staring accusingly at the doorway, where the orderly stood astraddle the dead auxiliary. More men were advancing through the hall. From the courtyard outside echoed the clamour of more fighting.

‘My guards are already busy.’ The governor looked about him. ‘We’re boxed in here. Placidus, old fellow, go to that window and see if you can see any hope of escape.’

He drew his sword and went to join the orderly in the doorway. Trembling, Sidonius Placidus crossed over to the window and rubbed at the thick green glass in an attempt to see outside. It gave a murky view of the street, as if the fort outside were under the sea, and all he could see were blurred, fighting figures. Auxiliaries on horseback seemed to be riding down armoured legionaries.

Blades rang out again from the doorway. The governor and his orderly fighting desperately as several more mutineers tried to force their way inside. The procurator looked round the room for any escape route. On one wall stood a door, but that that only communicated with his own office, where his files and records were stored during this visit to the Wall. He had known it would turn out to be a foolish idea, but now he regretted keeping his premonitions to himself.

The whole fort was a scene of conflict and carnage. But what had set these auxiliaries off? He had heard tales of the last revolt in Britain—rumour said that it had all been orchestrated by his predecessor, although that was clearly nonsense! Anyway, those had rebels been Gaulish auxiliaries, whipped up by the druids. These men were Cugernians, German. The Cugernians had been made Roman citizens for their services to the City!

The orderly had fallen to another sword thrust. Now Platorius Nepos stood alone, swinging his sword to block the thrusts of attacker after attacker. The procurator looked on in hopeless horror.

‘Help me, damn you,’ Platorius Nepos roared. He was bleeding from a score of cuts, although two dead auxiliaries lay at his feet. Yet more were coming in waves, intent on cutting down the defiant governor. ‘Get the tribune’s sword.’

Waddling to his side the procurator picked up the fallen weapon. Holding it warily between nerveless fingers he came to stand by the governor’s side. It was many years since he had served in the legions—he had been a young and acne ridden tribune, much like the youth who sat dead or dying beside them. But he still remembered what it was to grip a sword.

An auxiliary lunged at the governor, and then he was there, between them, his blade clashing with that of the attacker. The impact thrilled up his arm, and the rebel looked at him in surprise. He could hardly be as surprised as Sidonius Placidus himself, but the procurator lifted his sword manfully and swung it at the auxiliary, who stumbled backwards, tripping over a fallen body, and fell back into the crowd of blood hungry mutineers.

‘My thanks, procurator,’ Platorius Nepos cried. In the doorway, the enemy could only come at them two at a time, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed. ‘I’ll remember you in my report.’

‘My thanks, governor,’ Sidonius Placidus panted, blocking a cut from the auxiliary who had come to replace the last one. ‘But I fear that we have both written our last reports. Your notion of seeking escape routes was a fine one…’

‘Did you find any?’ asked Platorius Nepos grimly, fighting as he spoke.

Sidonius Placidus shook his head, not looking at the governor. He cut at his opponent, wounding him in the thigh, just beneath his mail. ‘Even if we smashed down the window, we would find ourselves amongst more enemies.’

He glared at the man he was fighting. ‘Why are you attacking us?’ he gasped. ‘Why this treachery?’

He barely parried the savage cut that was the man’s only answer.

‘Someone has put them up to this.’ Platorius Nepos stabbed the man. As the rebel auxiliary fell, another forced his way forwards to take his place.

‘We attack Romans because Romans attacked us!’ growled the German.

Thin lipped, the governor shook his head. The auxiliaries crowded round the entrance as Platorius Nepos spoke calmly to the auxiliary.

‘That is not true,’ he said firmly. ‘The attack came from nowhere.’

‘You attacked first,’ the auxiliary said, and several men nodded their heads. ‘We heard fighting so we ran out. Cavalrymen were fighting Romans. Then the Romans set upon us.’

‘I saw cavalry outside,’ Sidonius Placidus contributed. ‘In the Decuman Way.’

Platorius Nepos hesitated. ‘That young fool Quintus took a detachment of cavalry when he went on this absurd hunting expedition…’

At the sound of renewed fighting from the main doors he broke off. The auxiliaries turned to look and Sidonius Placidus saw that they were under attack from the courtyard, but from his position in the doorway it was impossible to see who else was attacking.

The German snarled. ‘You tricked us while your men crept up on us!’ he shouted.

He lunged at Platorius Nepos. Sidonius Placidus looked on, frozen with fear, as the governor leapt back, then returned the thrust with one of his own. With a gurgling cry the German dropped to the corpse littered ground.

But his comrades were out in the courtyard now, and they were fighting. Sidonius Placidus saw the silver glitter of legionary armour. He turned to the governor.

‘Rescue!’ he panted, dashing the sweat from his brow.

Platorius Nepos grunted. ‘Don’t be too sure, procurator.’ With distaste he regarded the bodies that littered the hall. ‘From what that man said, this may all be a terrible mistake. There’s more to it than meets the eye, to be sure.’

Going to the doors of the hall, Sidonius Placidus watched the fight in the courtyard. The ring of blade on blade deafened him. The rank coppery stink of blood turned his stomach. He had seen no active service during his time in the legions, and indeed his only experience of violent death was in the arena, where it all happened at a safe distance. The whole fort was the scene of fierce fighting. It was as if the world had returned to the chaos from which it had once risen.

At last the legionaries were triumphant; no living auxiliaries were to be seen. Stepping across the corpses came the sturdy, comforting sight of Camillus Marcellinus, Camp Prefect of the Sixth Legion, who had accompanied the governor and procurator on the journey north. He was a stolid, bluff, no-nonsense man, and although his speech was crude and he showed little appreciation of art and literature, Sidonius Placidus had come to respect him as a man. Platorius Nepos and the procurator came to meet him, but even as they did, the sound of battle still roared outside.

The governor shook the man’s massive paw. ‘My thanks, Camp Prefect,’ he said. ‘It seems we are besieged. Have your men fortify the building and we will find some way to put down this rebellion.’

‘Sir.’ Camillus Marcellinus saluted and turned away, issuing orders. In no time the entrances to the headquarters were barricaded and guarded.

They were joined in the courtyard by some of Sidonius Placidus’ civilian staff who had been hiding in rooms off the colonnade, and the procurator spoke encouragingly to them and told them to prepare for their own defence, while brandishing the bloody sword in his hand like a true hero of Rome. Even as he did so, men on horseback tried to force their way in through the northern archway.

But the attack was soon repulsed, and a quiet settled on the fort. The headquarters was surrounded by mutinous auxiliaries, mounted and on foot, but an impasse had developed. Platorius Nepos beckoned Sidonius Placidus and Camillus Marcellinus to his side.

‘We’ve given them a bloody nose,’ the governor told them with a bark of laughter. ‘But we are now prisoners in our own headquarters. The mutineers hold the fort. They surround us.’

‘We have supplies for a short siege,’ said Sidonius Placidus, who had obtained the information from his clerks. Speaking with a new tone of authority, he went on. ‘Food and medicine and bandages are to hand. However, the mutineers have the granaries in the fort outside, and they also control the barracks and the armoury.’

‘Then we sit tight,’ said the governor. ‘They won’t starve us out for some days, and some of us have extra reserves to draw on,’ he added, with an offensive grin directed at Sidonius Placidus’ gut.

The Camp Prefect grunted. ‘We can’t stand for this,’ he said. ‘We must cut our way out.’

‘We are outnumbered,’ the procurator murmured. ‘And some miles from Corstopitum[15], the nearest fort of any size. What’s more, we have no way of communicating with said fort. We’ve taught them to respect us, and they are now licking their wounds. But so are we. Fellow citizens, I fear that the only option open to us is for us to begin negotiations.’

Platorius Nepos exchanged a sour look with Camillus Marcellinus.

‘Ask them what they want?’ he said. ‘And what if they want your head on a pole, procurator? Will you be so willing to negotiate then? I agree with the Camp Prefect; we cut our way out.’

‘The procurator’s right, sir,’ Camillus Marcellinus said, ‘when he says that we’re heavily outnumbered. But reinforcements aren’t as far away as you think,’ he told Sidonius Placidus. ‘There’s a whole century of the Sixth down there on the riverbank. If you remember, due to an administrative error there wasn’t enough room for them to be barracked within the fort so they have been camped there, waiting to escort you two gentlemen back south.’

‘How can we hope to contact them?’ Sidonius Placidus asked, stung by the man’s reference to “administrative error”. ‘Down on the riverbank is as far away as Parthia as long as these mutineers surround us. Surely we should seek to negotiate. If we can find out what brought on this mutiny, we can make some token gesture of placating them. And then when they are less wary, we can bring in the reinforcements and crush them between hammer and anvil…’

‘Perhaps you have a point, procurator,’ admitted the governor. ‘You show a good grasp of tactics for a desk man. And I would indeed be interested to learn what brought on the attack. What’s more, I want to know what has happened to Quintus. Have I lost two tribunes today?’

‘According to the reports, more than one Roman has been seen with the mutineers,’ said Camillus Marcellinus, who had been conferring with a legionary. ‘Two of them, both on horseback. One is a woman. The man wears the uniform of a tribune.’

Platorius Nepos looked horrified. ‘Quintus—a traitor?’

‘The man who went on this hunting trip into Caledonia? And his woman?’ The procurator remembered the banquet when the tribune had made his rash boast. ‘Is this Quintus leading the attack? But why has he chosen to side himself with the rebels?’

He remembered Quintus’ woman; she’d made for a refreshingly fragrant change in the ultra-masculine world of the camp. Few men had even camp followers accompanying them—Sidonius Placidus had certainly not brought his own wife, leaving the sour old prune in Londinium—and Roman women of any kind were few in these parts.

Platorius Nepos scratched his head. ‘He rode out into the heather on a hunting trip. Then he returned at the head of a force of attackers. Has he made some deal with the barbarians? It’s unthinkable, quite inconceivable. I know the fellow’s father! He’s from a good Equestrian family. Had a chance to join the Senate one of these days. Has the fool thrown it all away to side with barbarians?’

‘As you say, sir,’ said Camillus Marcellinus, ‘it’s unthinkable.’

‘Utterly unthinkable,’ the governor agreed, ‘but now I very much want to speak with him. Centurion, take a party and contact the mutineers. Tell them that we wish to negotiate.’

He clicked his fingers and another orderly hurried forward to set a camp stool down behind him. Sidonius Placidus looked at him curiously as he sat down on it and mopped his brow. He seemed shaken by the news.

The procurator looked about frostily. One of his clerks caught his eye, rushed inside and returned bearing another stool. Sidonius Placidus sat down facing the governor. ‘This puts a new complexion on the matter,’ he said. ‘What can be the explanation for this reckless action on the part of your subordinate?’ He was glad none of his own clerks had thrown in his lot with the barbarians. ‘Why should he make such an attack?’ he added when Platorius Nepos made no immediate reply. ‘What do you suppose happened to him when he went north of the Wall?’

Platorius Nepos looked up. ‘Procurator,’ he addressed him in a voice that grated. ‘You—and I—will learn the answer to that when the Camp Prefect returns to tell us that negotiations have been opened with the mutineers. For the moment, however, I would take it as a personal favour if you could cease from troubling me.’

Stung, Sidonius Placidus diverted his energies into bullying his own subordinates.

—26—

The moment the gangplank was lowered, Flaminius ran down, landing deftly on the muddy river bank. The galley had moored in the lea of the bridge; the gangplank banged again behind him while he turned to get his bearings, and Junius Italicus tramped down to join him. After him darted the slight figure of Rhoda.

‘Get back aboard,’ Flaminius told the girl, gesturing to the crewmen watching from the side of the ship. ‘We don’t know what’s happening up in that fort, but it’s going to be dangerous.’ Her skills in disguise would be of no use here.

‘You think that worries me?’ Rhoda said spiritedly. ‘I grew up in the gutters of Rome. I’ve seen death many a time.’

‘Have you ever seen battle?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Armoured men in their multitudes, hacking and cutting at each other? Not a pretty sight…’

‘Sir,’ Junius Italicus interrupted. ‘The fighting seems to have stopped.’

The fort betrayed no signs of the combat they had heard earlier, apart from the column of black smoke towering into the sky. Was this a lull in the fighting, or had one side or other triumphed? And if so, which side?

‘Have the Caledonians annihilated the garrison?’ Flaminius muttered.

‘If so,’ said Junius Italicus, ‘the governor and the procurator will be dead too. At the very least they must be prisoners, sir. We’ll have no luck in finding the answer to the riddle now. For all we know, that’s the procurator’s archive gone up in smoke.’

‘Ever the optimist, centurion,’ Flaminius began acerbically, but Rhoda interrupted.

‘Sweetness,’ she said, ‘Look!’

An encampment stood beside the road that ran down from the Praetorian Gate of the fort. A group of legionaries stood outside their tents, gazing nervously up at the fort.

At a shout from the galley Flaminius turned to see the skipper standing at the top of the gangplank. ‘Will you be needing us any longer?’ he bellowed. ‘If not, we’ll sail south to Londinium.’

Flaminius pointed commandingly at him. ‘Remain at anchor,’ he shouted back, ‘but haul up the gangplank. We may need a quick getaway. If we show no signs of returning by the end of the day, you have my permission to sail to Hades or wherever you like.’

He turned on his heel, and led his two companions up the roadway. Spotting a centurion standing with his crested helmet under one arm, he marched up to him and gave him a salute.

‘Centurion, are you not going to the aid of your comrades?’

The centurion turned in surprise. He looked Flaminius up and down, lingering superciliously on his beard and his civilian clothes. ‘We have no orders to enter the fort,’ he said dogmatically. But Flaminius could see from his eyes that he was concerned by the fighting.

‘You do now,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Muster your men and advance on the fort immediately.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the centurion said, stressing the honorific, ‘but I don’t take orders from civilians. Even if you’re on the procurator’s staff, it would be highly irregular. May I see your credentials?’

‘It’s alright, soldier,’ said Junius Italicus, joining them with Rhoda at his elbow. ‘This man is with me.’ He showed his fellow centurion his insignia.

‘You’re an imperial courier?’ asked the centurion. ‘We have no mounts, if that is what you require. We’re obliged to feed you, of course, if you want any of the slop they dole out to my men...’

‘I’m in the Commissary,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘Thirteenth Legion. You and your men will place yourself under my command.’

The centurion saluted him resentfully and stood to attention. ‘Your orders, sir?’ he asked, eyes forward.

‘Do as my companion tells you,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘This is Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus, late of Egypt.’

‘Yessir,’ said the centurion. ‘You commissary types certainly get about.’ He shot Rhoda a disbelieving look, as if he was trying to figure out where she fitted in. Then he turned and stamped away to bellow at his men.

As the legionaries formed up into ranks, shields clutched in their left hands, javelins in their right, Flaminius grinned at Junius Italicus. ‘Late is the word, centurion,’ he said. ‘Technically, I’m no longer in the Commissary.’

Junius Italicus laughed. ‘If our enemies had their way, I’d have had my insignia stripped from me as well,’ he said. ‘My life too, perhaps.’

A group of legionaries began felling a tree that grew beside the camp. Rhoda sighed impatiently. ‘Are these the invincible Roman legions?’ she asked. ‘We need to find out what’s going on in the fort. If the Caledonians have taken the procurator prisoner, we have to set him free if we’re ever to stand a chance of learning who gave the order for Probus’ murder.’

Junius Italicus laughed. ‘If you want efficiency, you need patience,’ he said. Already the legionaries were standing ready. ‘Very good, centurion. March on the fort. Be ready for any attack. The Caledonians have seized it. They may well come out to meet us.’

But as they marched uphill, the fort brooded in an eerie hush. Still the smoke billowed into the sky. Was everyone dead? Had both sides slain each other? Were they advancing on a fort manned only by the slain? No guards were to be seen on the parapet. The gates were shut. The fort was silent. But if one side or another had triumphed, why was there no sign of life? Why had no effort been made to douse the flames? Would the fort be allowed to burn down, records and all?

The tramp of the legionaries’ booted feet echoed back from the dumb, unspeaking walls. Now the crenellations resembled the teeth of a dead man, hungry for life.

A shadow settled on Flaminius’ spirit. What awaited them beyond those fast shut gates? Would they meet resistance? Or would they find that Platorius Nepos and his men had crushed what must have been a surprise attack by the Caledonians? That was the only explanation; how else would they have succeeded in storming the fort?

Had they already known that both the governor and the procurator were present? It would be an incredible coincidence if the Caledonians had attacked this fort of all forts at precisely the moment that the two most powerful men in the province were present. If so, how had the barbarian tribesmen happened upon that classified little titbit of intelligence?

Grimly, he remembered the Archdruid and his subordinates. Had they tortured the truth from some captive, as they had attempted to do with him? Killing that man had been the best thing Flaminius had done in recent days. If their intelligence gathering was of such a high standard, they would pose a terrible threat to Rome. But was it possible? Everything he had heard and seen suggested that the Caledonians as a people were divided, embattled, too busy battling each other to ride against Rome.

The wind moaned as they reached the top of the hill; the walls stood before them. All was still and silent. At a word from Flaminius, Junius Italicus called a halt.

All that was audible was the sigh of the wind and the distant crackle of flame. The smell of burning wood hung rank in the air. But there was nothing else… or was there?

‘I hear people talking,’ said Rhoda suddenly.

Flaminius turned to her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There are people in there. But are they Romans or are they Caledonians?’

‘We’ll never find that out waiting out here,’ said Junius Italicus. ‘We need to open those doors. Centurion,’ he turned to his fellow officer, ‘we want that gate broken down.’

The centurion saluted, and gave orders to his men, and those who had marched at the back, carrying the tree they had felled down by the riverside, advanced towards the gate.

Silence fell as their marching feet faded into the distance. The walls were quiet, without a sign of life. Or… was there?

Out of the corner of his eye, Flaminius thought he saw a face peering at him from between two crenellations. But when he turned to look in that direction, the mysterious watcher had vanished like a dream.

Rhoda giggled. ‘It will be a surprise for the governor when he finds his own legionaries smashing down his gates.’

‘That’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ said Flaminius. ‘If Platorius Nepos sees either Junius Italicus or me, he won’t be pleased—whether we’ve smashed his gates down or not.’ He raised his voice as the impromptu battering ram slammed into the left hand gate. The gate shook but did not give. ‘But it seems more likely that we’ll find him dead and the Caledonians in control.’

‘In which case, why are we breaking in if all we’re going to find is trouble?’ Rhoda demanded.

Before Flaminius could answer, arrows began raining down from the parapet.

‘You have us at an advantage,’ Platorius Nepos rasped. ‘Very well. Let us hear your demands.’

He and the procurator stood in the main entrance to the courtyard, surrounded by legionaries. Out on the gravel streets the rebel auxiliaries sat their ponies, gazing down grimly from beneath burnished bronze helmets. Little could be seen of their savage faces, but Platorius Nepos did not think they were the Thracians who had accompanied him to this fort.

Sitting her horse in the vanguard, however, was a familiar female figure, bearing an unsheathed and bloodied sword in one hand. On Publia’s either hand were riders who bore javelins, ready to cast them at any wrong move from the Romans. Platorius Nepos had paid little attention to the camp followers of his officers. The woman had only ever distinguished herself at the recent feast where she had taunted Tribune Quintus until the fool took up her challenge. Nevertheless, now he looked at her, she seemed strangely familiar…

He should have forbidden the hunting expedition, he realised now, but at the time it had seemed like an opportunity: if one of his men could go hunting in the lands north of the Wall and return successful, it would serve to strengthen his case for a military expedition into Caledonia.

The legates of the three legions in Britain, the Sixth, the Twentieth, and the Second, had advised against the plan, arguing that the Caledonian tribes were by no means quiescent, and it would be a waste of valuable life if they were to march into the North—foolish, argued the grizzled legate of the Sixth, to honour the shades of the Ninth by throwing away more legions.

‘We have no demands,’ came the woman’s shrill voice, ‘except that you surrender yourself and your headquarters immediately.’

Sidonius Placidus gave Platorius Nepos a nervous titter. ‘They outnumber us, of course. Accept their demands and perhaps they will let us live.’

‘Live?’ Platorius Nepos hissed back. ‘Live for what? You think you will have any kind of career left if this gets out? Don’t be a fool.’

‘I, a fool?’ Sidonius Placidus cackled disbelievingly. ‘You can’t see when you’re beaten, governor.’

Platorius Nepos gave a disparaging shake of his head. ‘We will not accept unconditional surrender,’ he told Publia sternly. ‘We are Romans. I understood that you, too, are a Roman, even if you are a woman. Why have you sold us out to the barbarians?’

‘Surrender your headquarters to us,’ she told him, ‘and we will consider sparing your lives.’

‘You see, governor?’ hissed Sidonius Placidus. ‘They can see reason. Why can’t you?’

Platorius Nepos ignored him. He studied the auxiliary horsemen. ‘What of Tribune Quintus? I thought I saw him riding with you. Does he also demand unconditional surrender? I would speak with him.’

There was a man near the back of the troop who wore a long red cloak. ‘Is that you, lad?’ he called, pointing at him. ‘Trot forward. I would speak to you. I know your father, and it is as a father I would speak.’

But Quintus, if it was he, would not ride forwards. ‘Enough of this,’ Publia said. ‘We would seek to minimise the bloodshed. Surely you are not blind, governor. Our capture of this fort has resulted in numerous fatalities.’

‘You ride with barbarians, woman,’ Platorius Nepos said impatiently. ‘You must anticipate casualties. You may be a Roman, woman, but those you associate with are barbarians. Caledonians, if I’m not mistaken. They would slaughter us as they slaughtered the Ninth Legion.’

Publia laughed coldly. ‘They will have no compunction against slaughtering you and your men,’ she said. ‘Their lands have been ravaged by your legions. But they will not kill you if you surrender. We neither wish to destroy this fort nor its garrison.’

Platorius Nepos glanced ironically in the direction of the burning barracks block. ‘You don’t want to destroy…?’

‘That was not done under my orders,’ she snapped.

‘Nor under mine,’ said Platorius Nepos. ‘Why would I order my own barracks burnt down? Your lies find you out, woman.’

‘There was some confusion in the fight,’ she admitted. ‘Your Germans came over to us when your legionaries attacked them. Perhaps it was they who set fire to the barracks block.’

‘Surely something should be done.’ Sidonius Placidus spoke up bravely. ‘That fire will spread unless some attempt is made to extinguish it. Governor, order some of your men to take buckets of water and put out that fire.’

‘Nobody will move,’ Publia warned, ‘until the negotiations are complete. You will not attack us under the pretext of firefighting.’

Platorius Nepos turned away in disgust. ‘Then send your own men,’ he said impatiently. ‘Put out that fire, if you want to preserve this fort for whatever reason. I swear by Venus and Rome that my men will not make any move until the fire is extinguished.’

Publia looked over her shoulder at Quintus—if that was indeed the identity of the cloaked man—and he gave a curt nod. Looking oddly grateful, she turned and gestured to several German footmen, who hurried away to fill buckets at the fort well.

‘Now...’ Publia broke off as a man ran round the corner of the headquarters.

‘Men are marching on the fort,’ he cried. ‘We’re under attack!’

—27—

Under her breath, Publia cursed.

She had miscalculated. Although she had been aware of the legionaries encamped in the valley, the plan had been to make a lightning raid, take the governor prisoner, and then be away with what they had come for before the alarm was raised. Now they were fighting on two fronts.

‘Take men and attack,’ she ordered. As she did she heard the distant swoop of arrows from the vicinity of the Praetorian Gate and a chorus of shouts and cries, punctuated by a thunderous boom.

‘Men are already defending the walls,’ she was told. ‘But the attackers are trying to batter down the gates.’

Publia turned to her fellow riders. ‘Some of you, ride round to the southern gate and reinforce the defenders on the walls. The rest of you…’

Before she could finish speaking, the legionaries under Platorius Nepos’ command surged forwards, led by Camillus Marcellinus.

‘Drive them back!’ Publia cried, her horse rearing. Men and horses fell, but the rest galloped forwards, swords and javelins gleaming, to meet the legionaries in the open outside the headquarters building.

Platorius Nepos and Sidonius Placidus watched from the shelter of the barricade.

‘Men on foot against mounted men?’ the procurator complained. ‘This is sheer lunacy, governor.’

Platorius Nepos shook his head. ‘You heard that messenger. The legionaries stationed by the riverbank have come to our aid. They must have seen the smoke from that burning barracks block and guessed that something was amiss. Their centurion deserves a commendation for acting so decisively. Now we have a chance!’

Obstinately the procurator shook his head. ‘Our negotiations were bearing fruit. That woman told us that she did not want to destroy the place. She wanted our peaceful surrender. Very well, let us surrender.’

‘And face who knows what humiliations at the hands of the barbarians?’ Platorius Nepos asked. ‘It was a trick. Obviously a trick.’ He watched the savage fighting, but he could see nothing of the man in the red cloak. ‘I wish I could speak with Quintus. I wish to know what his part in all this is. What the young fool wants…’

‘Watch out!’ shouted the procurator. Platorius Nepos whirled round. An auxiliary was bearing down on them.

The governor drew his sword and faced the man. The auxiliary halted, and wrested off his helmet, revealing the red bearded face of a German. It was Adelmarus, the prefect in command of the rebellious troop.

‘Sir!’ he cried. ‘Peace!’

‘Peace?’ Platorius Nepos barked over the roar of the fighting. ‘Peace like this?’

The barracks block was still burning, and now another building had caught fire. In amongst the smoke, dark figures struggled and slew.

‘Sir, it’s all a mistake!’ Adelmarus gasped.

‘A mistake?’ Emboldened, Sidonius Placidus came from behind the barricade. ‘Well, of course it’s a mistake! Tell your men to put down their arms!’

‘A mistake?’ Platorius Nepos’ lip curled. ‘Your men stormed the fort and slew my men—by mistake? What kind of mistake is that? Now you’ve seen that I have reinforcements, you’d surrender?’

‘Sir,’ said Adelmarus, ‘it was not my men who stormed the fort but auxiliaries who accompanied you here. And your legionaries attacked my men without reason. I could not control them, and besides, did you not order your men to attack them?’

‘You attacked first!’ Platorius Nepos said. He paused. ‘Or at least, the men Quintus took with him did. I would dearly love to speak with that tribune…’

‘You’re right,’ Sidonius Placidus said. ‘It was the auxiliaries with Quintus who made the initial attack. When the legionaries fought back, they failed to distinguish between them and the Germanic auxiliaries in the fort.’

‘Then the question must be,’ Platorius Nepos said slowly, ‘who is the real culprit? Quintus and his woman, it seems. But why? What motivates them?’

The procurator gripped Adelmarus’ wrist. ‘Can you not speak to your men? Show them that it has all been a mistake? Encourage them to join the side of right?’

The German nodded wildly. ‘I shall speak to them,’ he said.

‘Good man,’ said Platorius Nepos.

Adelmarus strode away through the swirls of smoke, in the direction of his men who were fighting the legionaries. But even as he did so, an auxiliary on horseback burst from out of the smoke and rode him down.

Sidonius Placidus turned away, gagging in horror. The rider galloped on as if nothing had happened. Perhaps he had not even noticed. Adelmarus’ mangled body lay in the gravel and dirt. Soon the corpse vanished from sight as the legionaries began retreating.

With the prefect’s death all hope seemed to perish. The legionaries were falling before the auxiliary attack, the survivors withdrew to the barricaded arch.

‘Sir,’ reported Camillus Marcellinus, who was missing his shield and his plumed helmet and bore a broken, bloody sword in his fist, ‘They are too strong for us. We must surrender.’

‘No!’ Platorius Nepos rasped. ‘By Jove, no! We have reinforcements on their way! We must defend the headquarters until they come to our aid.’

A final time the battering ram slammed into the doors, and they burst open.

‘Forward!’ Brandishing his sword, Junius Italicus charged in, and the others followed.

Flaminius was at his heels. Somewhere behind him ran Rhoda, her face white, but insistent that she remain with them.

The ground was strewn with the bodies of the slain. A third of the century had fallen to the arrows of the defenders. But now they were inside the fort, racing down the tunnel that opened out into the street that ran north between lines of barrack blocks towards the headquarters building.

As they came out into the open, German auxiliaries appeared; the same men who had been shooting from the parapet, swarming down to meet them. The fighting was savage in the cramped space. Flaminius’ sword was bloodied to the hilt three times in the first few seconds. He glimpsed Junius Italicus duelling with a blond German bigger than even he was.

Then two more Germans came at him, and he panted desperately as he met their blades. What was happening here? He had thought Pons Aelius was under attack from the Caledonians. But mailed auxiliaries were attacking them. He lunged, thrust forward, knocked aside one man’s shield and sank his blade into the man’s neck. Then the other lunged his spear at him, and he felt a flash of agony as the spearhead entered his unprotected thigh. He brought his sword flashing down, smashed through the man’s shield and into his helmet, splitting his skull.

‘Where in Tartarus are those reinforcements?’ Platorius Nepos cursed.

The legionaries were fighting in the archway as the auxiliaries tried to force their way in. At the moment, the pressure was off on the south side, and the governor was able to concentrate his forces on the attack from the north. But they were giving ground by the second. If he was to hold his headquarters, then regain the fort from the mutineers, he would need more men.

Smoke was thick in the air. What had happened to the firefighting expedition he did not know, but evidently it had not been successful. The fire spread from barracks to barracks, and much of the northern half of the fort was now ablaze.

‘Something must be done,’ the procurator was squeaking. ‘We should retreat!’

‘We are retreating, procurator,’ Platorius Nepos told him wearily. ‘We have pulled back into headquarters. Until those reinforcements reach us, we must hold them off as long as we can.’

‘Then the Germans are still fighting us?’ Sidonius Placidus asked. ‘Someone should tell them that this is all a mistake!’

‘We can forget about that,’ Platorius Nepos said dismissively. ‘The only option is to crush them. When those reinforcements reach us…’

‘They’ll never get here,’ said Sidonius Placidus, and he broke off into a fit of coughing. ‘You fool!’ he gasped. ‘When that fire reaches my files, it will be a disaster for the civil administration of this province!’

‘Is that really all you are worried about?’ Platorius Nepos sneered. ‘Our lives are threatened, and you maunder on about bookkeeping?’

‘I worry about our lives as well,’ the procurator said defiantly. ‘Once again, I insist that we surrender and pay due consideration to the rebels’ terms. Our lives are too valuable to Rome and to this province for us to endanger them in a conflict like this.’

Platorius Nepos turned on his heel. The fool knew his answer to that outrageous suggestion. How a coward like Sidonius Placidus had gained such a position of power was beyond him. He went to speak with the Camp Prefect.

Flaminius’ allies had also been forced back. Now they were pent up in the gatehouse, while the Germans controlled the street. Black smoke was billowing across the gravel. Flaminius crouched beside Junius Italicus as the legionaries kept up a sporadic interchange with the Germans. What had happened to Rhoda he did not know, but he feared the worst.

‘What’s happening in this place?’ he wondered. ‘I thought it was under attack from Caledonians, but now it looks like there’s been some kind of mutiny.’

‘Beats me, sir,’ said Junius Italicus, his beefy face imperturbable. ‘But if we don’t cut our way through them and find the procurator quickly, this whole place will burn down first. Then our only hope is that the information we’re looking for is kept in Londinium.’

From the distance came the sound of fighting from further inside. ‘We’ll achieve nothing staying here,’ Flaminius said. ‘Whoever our enemies are, we’ve got to get to the procurator.’

He crossed to where the centurion in command crouched, peering round the side of the gate. ‘Centurion, we must get to the procurator.’

The centurion looked back at him. ‘And the governor, sir, yes. But the place is in chaos, and these rebel auxiliaries are holding their position.’

‘What do you suppose has happened?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Have the auxiliaries been suborned by the Caledonians?’

The centurion shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he told him. ‘I thought your people were the ones with the intelligence.’

‘The Commissary?’ Flaminius said. ‘Well, we don’t know everything. But one thing I do know, and that’s that we have to get through these mutineers. Get the men mustered, centurion, and ready for another full-on attack.’

‘I don’t take orders from civilians,’ the centurion said darkly. ‘I don’t know who you are, even if you are vouched for by a commissary centurion…’

Flaminius heard a soft voice speaking his name. He turned to see Rhoda sitting against the wall of the gateway, clutching at herself.

‘Oh,’ she moaned. ‘I’m hurt, sweetheart.’

He went to her side. ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘I lost sight of you during the fight. I thought you’d had the sense to keep back.’ He cursed, and knelt by her. An arrow jutted from her side. ‘Let me see that!’

She gasped with pain. The arrow was buried deep, protruding from a nasty mess of blood and fabric. Gripping hold of it in both hands, he snapped it close to where it jutted from her flesh. She cried out and her head slumped back against the wall. For a moment Flaminius thought that the war was over for her. He gazed down in horror.

‘I told her to stay back,’ he muttered.

‘She’s still breathing.’

Junius Italicus had come to join him. His face was drawn. At his words, Flaminius looked back to see that Rhoda was still breathing. He slapped gently at her face, and her eyes flickered open.

‘You fainted,’ he said. ‘We need to get you a medic.’

‘The only medic round here will be in headquarters, sir,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘if he still lives.’ He unclipped his lance-head brooch and handed it over. ‘This may help ease your passage.’

‘Keep an eye on her.’ Flaminius clipped on the brooch, rose, then returned to the centurion in charge.

‘How long do you intend to wait here?’ he said. ‘We must fight our way inside.’

The centurion rose. ‘They’re rested now, ready for another bout.’ He turned to his men. ‘Shields up, forward!’ he shouted.

The fight was short and savage. But as the legionaries burst through the Germans, cutting them down on either hand, the street between the barracks blocks reverberated to the thunder of hoofs.

The fighting in the entrance to the headquarters was growing fiercer. As the procurator watched from the cover of the doorway, surrounded by frightened clerks, he saw Platorius Nepos himself retreating with his men, spilling out into the courtyard as the Germans forced them backwards. The metallic echo of pounding hoofs preceded the mounted auxiliaries as they rode into the courtyard.

‘Procurator,’ shouted one of the clerks, a eunuch freedman. ‘We must flee! The fort is lost! Let these legionaries stay here to fight if they wish, but someone has to get word to the nearest fort!’

Sidonius Placidus gripped his hand gratefully. If he became the man who brought the warning of attack, he would not be branded a coward. His career would survive. He opened his mouth to thank the man, then broke into a fit of coughing. The smoke was thick in the air.

‘But we can’t leave,’ he said, turning in the direction of his office. ‘My files! I can’t abandon my files!’

The clerk seized his arm. ‘Forget the files, sir,’ he said. ‘We must find horses and ride from here.’

The procurator was almost crying in frustration. ‘Very well,’ he wheezed. ‘Get me a horse, and we will ride from the fort as best we can.’ Although Corstopitum was the nearest fort of any size, Condercum, two miles west along the Wall, was much closer, if smaller. He could be there in half an hour by horse, bringing the dreadful news. All he needed to do was escape the fort… But his files!

‘Get another horse,’ he told the man, ‘and load as many of the files in the saddlebags. Good man. You’ll get a promotion for this, depend on it.’

The procurator hid behind a pillar of the colonnade, struggling to see what was happening in the confusion of the courtyard. After a seemingly interminable wait, the clerk returned with only one horse, a bay mare. There was no sign of the files. It was then that the procurator’s nerve went. Some things were more important than accurate record keeping.

‘You will have to remain behind,’ he said, seizing hold of the horse’s reins.

‘But what of the files?’ asked the clerk as Sidonius Placidus hauled himself onto the back of the nervous mount.

‘Oh, to Hades with the files!’ shouted the procurator.

The courtyard was filled with struggling armoured men. Sidonius Placidus jabbed his heels savagely into the horse’s flanks and galloped away.

—28—

The courtyard was a scene of chaos. Thick black smoke obscured Sidonius Placidus’ view as he rode for the arch. Knots of fighting men blocked his route, and his nervous mare whinnied in terror as he sawed at the reins to guide her round them. He saw mutineers cut down legionaries, legionaries despatching auxiliaries. There seemed to be no strategy or tactics, just struggle and slaughter. Where Platorius Nepos might be in all this confusion, or the Camp Prefect for that matter, the procurator did not know.

At last he reached the southern arch, and urged his mount through it, galloped down the tunnel and out into the street beyond.

As he did a troop of mounted auxiliaries burst out of the smoke, and his skittish mount reared up, forelegs thrashing the air. He was pitched from her back to strike the ground with enough force to knock the breath from his body.

Weakly, he lay there, watching as his horse galloped away, caught up in the charge of the auxiliaries. Turning the corner they rode south towards the Praetorian Gate.

As the clatter of their hoofs receded in the smoky air, Sidonius Placidus struggled to get his breath back, lying there half in and half out of the archway. Eyes streaming, he watched numbly as the auxiliary horsemen attacked armoured men advancing from the Praetorian Gate.

The reinforcements! Numbly he recalled how word had come of them, the appearance of the reserve century that had been stationed by the riverbank. He wanted to approach them, to tell them to concentrate their efforts on seizing the headquarters, but he was too weak.

Besides, they were under attack from cavalry. He was no military man, but he knew that infantry, even Roman legionaries, could not hope to prevail long against mounted opponents. It was futile even to try.

His head lolled back against the paving stones.

The riders met the legionaries halfway down the street. Flaminius recognised them as auxiliaries, carrying the shields of Thracian cavalry. For a fleeting instant, he felt a heart wrenching nostalgia for the Frisian horsemen he had commanded so long ago—five years, was it? Six?—when first he had come to the province.

The riders smashed into the advancing legionaries and instantly it was a scene of slaughter. Armoured men fell, trampled beneath hoofs. The legionaries no longer carried javelins, only short swords and daggers, and the combination of these and shields was little defence against the wild riders. Flaminius, unarmoured, bearing only a sword, was at an even greater disadvantage.

One of the legionaries cast aside his shield then ran straight at the lead horse, seized the rider’s booted foot as he cut at fleeing legionaries with his longsword, and yanked him sideways. Off balance, the mailed auxiliary scrabbled for a hold on his rearing horse, aimed a clumsy lunge with his sword, bringing it over the horse’s mane as he tried to despatch his attacker, but the attempt itself further unbalanced him and he fell from his saddle, striking the ground hard with his helmeted head.

The horse screamed and trotted round in circles, trailing its bridle. The legionary ran after it, trying to catch the reins, then fell with a shriek, a javelin buried between his shoulder blades.

Two more legionaries took on an auxiliary who swung his sword in wild loops on either side, cutting down men on either side. One hacked at his horse’s hamstrings, the other caught his sword blade in his shield, then thrust his own short sword upwards, deep into the man’s thigh, beneath the skirt of his mail. But the auxiliary freed his sword, despite the blood that jetted from his thigh; as his horse went down, frothing with foam at its shrieking mouth, he spitted the first legionary on his longsword; his blade entered his body at the side of his neck and came out beneath his breastplate.

Flaminius found himself fighting two riders, both wielding longswords. He was at less of a disadvantage than he had thought, also carrying a longsword as he did. But he was still weak from the tortures of the druids, he bled from several serious wounds, and in the cramped conditions of the street it was impossible to fight with any skill.

He heard the brassy note of a horn. The centurion was sounding the retreat!

Flaminius was about to follow the withdrawing legionaries when an auxiliary caught him a glancing blow across the chest that sliced open his tunic, leaving a long line of red across his tattooed chest. Bowled over by the force of the blow, he fell back against the door of a barracks block. It burst open under the impact and he fell into the gloom of the room beyond.

As he lay there, half stunned, galloping horses charged past him. Had the centurion lost his nerve? Or was he withdrawing to a better tactical position? Fighting cavalry in the narrow street was a recipe for disaster. Maybe in the gatehouse they would stand a better chance.

Flaminius’ groping hand found his fallen sword lying close beside him, and he gripped it for comfort. The street outside was void of living fighters. As he used the sword to help himself to his feet, he saw bodies lying scattered in ungainly attitudes. A dead horse here. Two dead auxiliaries there. Several dead legionaries.

Each one was dead, some trampled by horse hoofs, others sword slashed and bloody. Looking down the street, he saw the horsemen milling outside the gatehouse, where the surviving legionaries stood at bay. There was no way he could return to his comrades without passing through the ranks of mutineers, and they would hardly permit him to pass them.

He wondered what Junius Italicus’ reactions might be, how Rhoda was bearing up. He must find a medic, he told himself, and somehow get him to her side.

He looked in the other direction. Through the billowing smoke he saw the red roof tiles of the headquarters building, from which emanated the distant clash of blade on blade and the blare of shouting voices. It looked like this was no better an option. He would be best advised to remain where he was until he saw an opportunity to join his comrades.

Absently, he stroked the ring key that he wore on his right hand.

He had to get to the headquarters. He had to find the procurator’s files. They represented his only hope of clearing Probus’ name and regaining his own position in the Commissary. But going by the thick clouds of smoke, either they had already been burnt or would go up with the fort pretty soon. Unless somebody did something.

His gaze fell on one of the dead auxiliaries. This one had lost his helmet. And there was something familiar about his appearance.

Flaminius crouched down beside him, studying the barbaric blue tattoos that swirled around the man’s neck and cheeks. They seemed to confirm his suspicions. This was not a dark bearded, dark eyed Thracian of the kind he remembered from his time as an auxiliary tribune. Nor was it a Frisian, like his old comrade Hrodmar.

Grimly, Flaminius wondered where the chirpy Frisian had got to. This dead man brought back memories from these days, but he was neither Thracian nor German. He came from this very island, if Flaminius was any expert. And he had made a good study of the tribes and nations of Britain when he was younger.

‘A Caledonian?’ he muttered. ‘Disguised as an auxiliary?’

A thought struck him. He examined the dead man’s tattoos closely. What he saw gave him considerable pause for thought. Here was a mystery indeed. Something was very wrong here.

He rose. The entire fort resounded with the sound of fighting. It didn’t inspire confidence, but he didn’t seem to have any option. He started walking up the street.

Sidonius Placidus saw a ragged figure appearing from the smoke that still swirled in the Praetorian Way. He had watched the skirmish between horsemen and legionaries feeling numb, seen the legionaries forced back without feeling anything. Now this apparition materialised, unsheathed sword in his hand, and he began to feel the stirrings of terror.

Who was he? The man’s hair was wild and unshorn, his beard longer and more ragged than that of a peripatetic philosopher. He walked slowly, wearily, head bowed, as if he bore the very heavens on his shoulders, like the titan in the old myth. And he was heading straight for Sidonius Placidus.

‘Please!’ the procurator gasped out. ‘I’m a civilian—a non-combatant! Don’t kill me! I would be worth more to you as a hostage.’

Flaminius saw a portly man clad in the sooty remnants of an equestrian toga, weak chinned and wide eyed. He had all the looks of a jumped up clerk. Flaminius had met many such in his career.

‘I’m not attacking this place,’ he told him. ‘I’m a Roman, like you.’ He helped the man stand.

‘From your Latin, I believe you,’ wheezed the man. ‘You didn’t learn to speak it in this dismal outpost of empire. And I can tell that you are not one of these Iberians who have risen under the new emperor. Very well, I shall risk telling you who I am. My name is Sidonius Placidus, procurator of the province.’

Flaminius laughed harshly. ‘The very man I’m looking for, procurator,’ he said. ‘I expected to find you under different circumstances. What has happened to Pons Aelius?’

The clamour of fighting came from every side, but here all was peaceful. ‘Mutiny, young man,’ announced the procurator, looking about him as if expecting attack at any moment. ‘I don’t fully understand what has happened, but for some reason a member of the governor’s staff took it into his head to suborn a group of Thracian auxiliaries to attack us…’ As he gave a garbled, confused account of what had happened, Flaminius listened patiently.

‘Out into the wilds beyond the Wall?’ he said at last. ‘Into Caledonia?’ Sidonius Placidus nodded vigorously. ‘I examined the corpse of one of the auxiliaries who attacked us in the Praetorian Way,’ Flaminius went on. ‘He was no Thracian. His skin was tattooed with the designs worn by the tribes that live in these parts.’

‘A Caledonian?’ The procurator grimaced. ‘That would explain much. It seems that the auxiliaries that Tribune Quintus took with him on his hunting expedition were ambushed by Caledonians, who gained access to the fort under their guise. Then the Germans threw in their lot with the mutineers, perhaps out of simple opportunism. But it does not explain everything…’

‘What does it not explain?’ Flaminius asked curiously.

‘I saw little sign of Quintus when we were negotiating,’ the procurator mused. ‘There was a man who could have been him, but I never saw his face. The apparent leader of the attackers was his woman.’

Flaminius looked questioningly at him. ‘His woman? You didn’t mention her. Did she go with him on this hunting trip, then?’

‘Did I not tell you? But she was the instigator. A Roman woman, they say, but I doubt she has seen the Seven Hills in her life. They call her...’

Sidonius Placidus broke off. Flaminius was no longer listening to the procurator. He raised a hand, and the procurator listened. Although the fighting was not over down by the gatehouse, silence had fallen over the headquarters building.

‘Is the fight at an end?’ Sidonius Placidus asked, his voice brimming with hope. ‘Have we won?’

Followed by her tribesmen, Publia swept through the archway into the headquarters building, the bodies of the fallen lining her way. As she came out into the colonnade she saw the courtyard where so much of the fighting had taken place. Surviving legionaries knelt in the dirt, tribesmen stood guard over them.

In the great hall stood the governor, Platorius Nepos, a wry smile on his face as men in the armour of auxiliaries menaced him with swords. On the mosaic floor lay the huddled form of Camillus Marcellinus. He had fallen while bravely defending his governor. What had happened to Sidonius Placidus he did not know.

Seeing Publia appear, surrounded by her barbaric coterie, he waited patiently for her approach.

‘Governor,’ said Publia, her voice echoing in the marble hall. ‘You were wise to surrender. If only you had done so earlier, there would have been much less killing.’

‘There would have been no slaughter at all,’ said Platorius Nepos darkly, ‘had you and your fool husband not taken it into your silly heads to suborn the auxiliaries. What in Jove’s name was it all about?’ He looked searchingly at the men who accompanied her. ‘Where is that cursed traitor Quintus? I would speak with him.’

‘You’re our prisoner, governor,’ said a man in a red cloak. ‘We are here to speak with you!’

At first Platorius Nepos thought that it was Quintus who was speaking, but this was a bearded fellow in middle age, although he wore tribune’s regalia. Broodingly he studied the auxiliaries who stood with Publia and this enigmatic figure. He recognised none of them, and he always made a particular point of memorizing the names and faces of all men who served directly under him.

‘You’re not Quintus,’ he said. ‘Nor are these men the Thracians who rode out into Caledonia. There is only one of you who I recognise, and that is you, woman. Who are you? What have you done with my tribune and my men?’

‘You know who I am,’ Publia said, and again the governor felt that haunting sense of familiarity. ‘I was with your tribune for a year. Was I beneath your notice? We didn’t attend many social functions, of course... Well, now he is gone, and you are my prisoner. There is much that we need to discuss. But first,’ she added, coughing in the smoke, ‘this fire must be extinguished before the whole fort burns down to the ground.’ She clicked her fingers and a group of her men hurried away. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t do something about it before, governor.’

‘I despatched men to put it out,’ Platorius Nepos said, ‘but it seems they did not succeed. I should imagine your men killed them. Are you telling me you launched this attack solely to make me your prisoner?’

‘You are governor of this province,’ Publia said. ‘An important man. Yes, we came here to capture you. But we were also hoping to speak with the procurator.’ She looked around her. ‘Where is he?’

—29—

‘I do not know what has happened to Sidonius Placidus,’ Platorius Nepos said. ‘Things have been very confused today. Perhaps you should speak with one of his clerks. I am chiefly concerned with military matters, not civil administration.’

At an order from Publia one of the tribesmen swaggered from the hall and returned soon after dragging a flabby fellow clad in the simple linen tunic of a freedman. His eyes were big with fright and he seemed on the edge of weeping.

‘Where is the procurator?’ Publia demanded.

The freedman opened his mouth to wail, ‘He told me to get him a horse, two horses. One for him, one for the files. I got him one horse at great personal risk and he rode away.’ He spoke in the high pitched voice of a eunuch.

The bearded man in the red cloak looked closely at him. ‘And the files?’ he asked.

The eunuch freedman shook his head. ‘I could not find another horse! Smoke was everywhere, and fighting men. When Sidonius Placidus saw that there was no hope of saving the files, he rode away.’

‘The coward!’ Platorius Nepos said contemptuously. ‘This won’t look good in my report to Hadrian.’

‘Are you so sure you’ll be able to write that report?’ asked Publia. She gestured at the tribesman. ‘Take horse and follow.’

The eunuch freedman added urgently, ‘Sir! He did not run away! He went to get help!’

‘Where?’ Publia asked.

‘Don’t tell her!’ snapped Platorius Nepos. ‘They’ll hunt him down and kill him.’

‘We don’t want to kill the procurator,’ the bearded man assured them. ‘Tell the men to bring him back alive, if they find him,’ he told Publia, and it was then that Platorius Nepos realised that Quintus’ wife was not the real power here. ‘We merely wish to consult his records,’ he went on. ‘Through here, are they?’ He indicated the door leading to Sidonius Placidus’ office.

‘Yes sir,’ said the eunuch and Platorius Nepos gave him a glower.

‘I may be some time,’ said the bearded man. ‘Don’t start without me, will you?’ With a cold smile to Publia, he opened the door and vanished into the office.

Platorius Nepos sat down on a bench, laid his hands in his lap, and surveyed the crowded hall. Barbarians filled it, clad in auxiliary armour; Caledonians, if he was any judge. Now that they were close, he saw the intricate tattoos that he associated with the northern tribes, disfiguring their faces, forearms, necks—disgusting! Sickening! How any man could subject himself to such cutting and staining was beyond his comprehension as a civilised Roman.

But these were not civilised lands. He was on the edge of the empire. Face to face with barbarism.

And yet there was one anomaly: the Roman woman to whom all these barbarians deferred. He had never become closely acquainted with her, even though she had married a man on his staff. Roman as she might be, it would have been as beneath his dignity to be more than coldly polite to her as it was for Quintus to marry her.

It had been when they were stationed in Eboracum, he remembered. He had spoken with Quintus on the subject, on how foolish it was to lose one’s heart to a female of low rank. No doubt the family had a marriage with a girl of suitable social station arranged back in Rome. But Quintus had been prey to strange notions. He had married her, he confided in his superior, because he loved her.

Platorius Nepos had been in love, of course, as a young man; his heart had belonged to several pretty girls and boys, at one time or another. But then he had married well, and settled down to a life of public service accompanied by a Roman matron of the old school. His wife, of course, had remained in Rome while he was stationed out in Britain. No doubt she was idling her time away with some lusty gladiator or wrestler, but he felt no jealousy. She had produced healthy children, including a son, Calpurnianus, and that was all that was required of her. She had done her duty. So had he.

Outside, the fort was quiet apart from the shouts of the men who were still putting out the fire, and a distant clang of blade on blade that showed that some Romans—perhaps the century that had been encamped by the river—were still battling the attackers. A rank smell of wet ash now hung over all. At least the fire had not reached the headquarters building—or the procurator’s files. Or maybe it would have been better if it had. Why did the attackers want to consult the procurator’s files?

What the fool had been thinking of, bringing his paperwork on this journey, Platorius Nepos did not know, but no one could fault the fellow for his diligence and hard work. And he had gone to raise the alarm? Perhaps Sidonius Placidus would be able to rescue his career from this disaster. Platorius Nepos doubted that he would—even if he survived the attentions of these Caledonians.

‘While we’re waiting for your friend to finish reading through those confidential files,’ he said calmly, addressing Publia, ‘perhaps you could tell me why a Roman citizen like you is consorting with barbarians?’

She crossed over to him. Now that she was near, he could see that she had little of the Roman in her looks. Despite her olive complexion, she had all the chill beauty of northern women, and her black hair had been dyed; it was beginning to show blonde at the roots.

‘We came here because we wanted you, governor,’ she told him. ‘When we have finished with you, you will govern no more.’

Flaminius peered round the corner of the gate. The smoke was slowly clearing in the courtyard, and the battle was indeed at an end. What he also saw caused his eyes to harden. He watched a little longer, then crawled back to Sidonius Placidus, who had been crouching out of sight within the shadows of the gate.

He nodded to the procurator and sat down beside him. ‘The fight’s over in there,’ he told him.

‘Did we win?’ Sidonius Placidus nodded in the direction of the Praetorian Gate. ‘It’s about time something was done about the fighting around the gatehouse.’

Flaminius shook his head absently. Indeed, he wanted the struggle at an end. He wanted to find the camp medic and see if he could tend to Rhoda’s wound. But from what he had seen of the courtyard, the medic would be busy for a long time. Wounded and dead men lay everywhere. Men in auxiliary armour stood on guard over the main hall, where no doubt the surviving Romans were still pent up.

‘The defenders have surrendered,’ he said. ‘There have been losses, and the auxiliaries are now in control.’

‘Auxiliaries?’ the procurator questioned. ‘Barbarians, you mean. Those are not men who the governor would accept into his personal guard. He has had no auxiliaries of Gaulish or British stock since the burning of Londinium.’

Flaminius remembered the rebellion[16]. He had penetrated the bagaudae rebels, but been unable to escape before Londinium was attacked. He had almost joined the auxiliaries in the mass execution Platorius Nepos himself had ordered on the banks of the stream that ran through the centre of town.

‘You were there?’ the procurator asked, after Flaminius had given him an edited account of his own involvement. ‘Do you suppose that that is what all this is about? These Caledonians or whoever they are have taken Platorius Nepos prisoner to wreak some kind of revenge?’

‘It’s possible,’ Flaminius admitted.

It was making his own mission all the more difficult, whatever it was. Pensively, he stroked the ring-key. So near and yet so far. At least the fires were extinguished now, and the files were no longer at risk. And he had the procurator in his confidence. Maybe there was still a chance that he could learn who had sent the Dacian gold to Falco. But the presence of these attackers added a new level of complexity to his mission.

He noticed the procurator staring at him suspiciously. No, not at him—at his chest. His tunic had flapped open, and his sword cut must be visible. But that wasn’t what Sidonius Placidus was staring at.

‘Where did you get those tattoos?’ the procurator asked suddenly.

‘If you wished to speak me to me, woman, you had plenty of opportunities when your husband was stationed in Eboracum. You really didn’t need to go to these lengths.’

‘I don’t wait for the opportunity to offer itself,’ Publia told Platorius Nepos. ‘I create it.’

‘Your Latin is very good,’ the governor went on. ‘But it’s hardly Virgilian. Where did you learn to speak our language?’ When she did not answer, he added, ‘You’re not a Roman at all, are you? You’re a barbarian.’

Hotly, she said, ‘I am a Roman citizen!’

‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Platorius Nepos rasped. ‘Now I think I’ve got you worked out. This is some kind of revenge for how I suppressed the revolt a couple of years go. Isn’t that right? Perhaps you had some kind of sweetheart amongst the rebels. I know they kept native women as whores, Caledonians many of them, and you are a native, aren’t you? For all you claim to be Roman. Your man was decapitated, I’d guess, on my orders, in Londinium. And you’ve been working on your revenge ever since. Am I right?’

‘You are very brave, for a man surrounded by enemies,’ Publia said. ‘You are at our mercy, and yet you speak with all that most admirable Roman gravitas. But no, governor,’ she added, ‘this has nothing to do with the revolt. That was the work of some deluded Gaul who was procurator in those days, as you surely remember. The people of Britain had nothing to do with it.’

‘So you admit that you are from Britain?’ Platorius Nepos said. ‘To be exact, from the north. Not a Roman, then, as you claimed.’

‘I am a Briton,’ she confirmed, ‘and I am also a Roman. ‘And we have not captured you because of your part in putting down any rebellion. No, indeed. We are concerned with something that happened earlier in your career.’

Platorius Nepos’ eyes hardened. ‘Earlier in my career?’ he asked. ‘But I had nothing to do with Britain until I was appointed governor. I was born in Hispania, I was a friend of Hadrian long before he became emperor. My early career took me to Upper Germany, followed by a string of civil and military posts. Later I was governor of Thrace[17], then Lower Germany… Only after the disaster, when the Ninth Legion was wiped out, did my old friend the emperor asked me to replace Falco as governor of Britain. How could anything in my blameless career have offended a band of wild and woolly barbarians like your friends—before I became governor of Britain?’

‘We must hurry,’ said Flaminius.

Leaving the shelter of the gateway, he and the procurator made their way cautiously through the shadows of the colonnade. Darting from pillar to pillar, they proceeded surreptitiously in the direction of the main headquarters building. That was where he felt he had the best chance of completing his mission, and also he might find the medic who could help Rhoda.

Sidonius Placidus followed behind him, the procurator’s clumsiness a counterpoint to Flaminius’ agility.

‘Get back,’ Flaminius hissed as they reached the further corner. Men in the armour of auxiliaries were riding towards the gate. The two fugitives sought cover behind a pillar and Flaminius peered out as the auxiliaries passed. Not one horse was in step; they seemed an ill disciplined lot.

He shook his head wryly. It wouldn’t have done, back in his days attached to the Ninth. The decurion at the head would have been back in the ranks before he could say pious Aeneas the founder of Rome. But these weren’t real auxiliaries, like the well trained Frisians Flaminius had once commanded. These were rude, untutored barbarians if ever there were any.

‘How are we ever going to get past them?’ the procurator panted. ‘And what are we going to do once we get there?’

Flaminius shuddered a little, and looked back at him. ‘Don’t worry yourself, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of something.’

‘We should have made better plans before we set out,’ the procurator hissed. ‘Do all commissary agents go into the field so unprepared?’

Flaminius grinned. A flash of Junius Italicus’ insignia had been enough to dispel the man’s suspicions on seeing his tattoos—it had felt just like old times. ‘We’re encouraged to be resourceful, sir,’ he said.

The clatter and hiss of hoofs on gravel died away, and he peered out again. Now the whole courtyard was almost deserted. He beckoned to Sidonius Placidus and they began to make their way further up the colonnade.

‘Who goes there?’

A tattooed man had appeared from out of a doorway, another behind him. Both carried longswords unsheathed. Flaminius moved suddenly, and the first man brandished his sword. But Flaminius was not reaching for his own weapon. He yanked back his tunic, and said something in a language that the procurator recognised as the British tongue.

To Sidonius Placidus’ mingled surprise and relief, the two warriors relaxed at the sight of the tattoos on Flaminius’ chest. They stepped back and waved him past, but still looked suspiciously at the procurator. Cold sweat broke out on Sidonius Placidus’ brow.

‘It’s alright, he’s with me,’ said Flaminius, and the tribesmen grunted and let him through.

The procurator realised that the doorway was the one that led to the main hall of the headquarters building. He paused on the threshold, seeing that the interior was thronged with armoured men. Before he could turn and run, Flaminius took him by the folds of his toga and hauled him inside.

A woman was speaking. ‘…when we have finished examining the files, we…’ Her voice broke off abruptly as they entered.

The procurator recognised the speaker as Publia. She stood domineeringly over the bench where Platorius Nepos sat, the latter seemingly at ease despite the savage warriors who surrounded him. But Publia was not looking at the governor. She was staring over her shoulder at the two newcomers.

The governor followed her gaze and a puzzled look crept across his own face. But he was not looking at Sidonius Placidus. He was staring at Flaminius.

‘Publia Aelia Drustica,’ said Flaminius breezily, ignoring the governor. ‘It’s been a long time! Two years! How have you been keeping? Someone told me you had got married.’

—30—

Drustica stared open mouthed at Flaminius. ‘Gaius,’ she said. ‘I was afraid I would never see you in Britain again. But my marriage… it was one of convenience. Where have you been?’

Flaminius came to perch on the edge of the governor’s bench. ‘Your grasp of Latin has improved,’ he commented. ‘Although black hair doesn’t suit you, and what have you done to your skin? Some kind of dye? I hope it washes off. No, I don’t suppose anyone expected to see me in this province again. Not while our senatorial friend here held the reins of power, at any rate.’

He gave Platorius Nepos a dazzling smile. ‘Nice to see you again, too, Aulus,’ he told the governor.

Platorius Nepos looked about him, exasperated. ‘Who is this hirsute mountebank who speaks to me, governor of Britain, in such familiar tones?’ he rasped. ‘What do you have to do with this outrageous attack? I don’t believe I have ever seen you.’

‘Oh yes you have,’ said Flaminius. ‘You banished me from your province two years ago. Since then—to answer your question, Drustica—I’ve been very busy in Egypt, but that’s another story. I don’t have any connection with this assault on the fortress of your dignity, governor, but my name is Gaius Flaminius Drusus.’

‘Flaminius!’ Platorius Nepos was astounded. ‘Yes, I see it now,’ he added. ‘You have indeed changed a great deal. Since you provoked that revolt almost single handed.’

Sidonius Placidus had been watching the exchange from by the door. Now he waddled forwards.

‘This man Flaminius was responsible for the revolt?’ he asked. ‘But he told me… he told me…’

‘The governor is exaggerating,’ said Flaminius. ‘Everything happened as I told you. I joined the bagaudae in disguise, and worked against them from within. Unfortunately it was not enough to deter the revolt. Rather unfairly, the governor here blamed me and banished me, and my colleague Centurion Junius Italicus.’ He turned to Drustica. ‘Junius Italicus and another of my friends is with the legionaries who are still fighting your tribesmen at the Praetorian gate. May I suggest that you send men to sue for peace? There seems to be no point in continuing the fight.’

Drustica did as he suggested, and several of her men departed in the direction of the Praetorian Gate.

‘You don’t seem very surprised to see me, Gaius,’ she remarked.

‘I had been hoping to catch up ever since I set sail for Britain,’ he told her. ‘Junius Italicus told me you hadn’t been heard of since you married. But when I saw the body of one of your followers, and compared his tattoos with the ones your tattooist gave me, I saw that the attackers were from your own Carvettian tribe. Gave me a nasty moment, I’ll tell you. I remembered those disputes, how you kept petitioning the governor to change the line of the Wall so your tribal hunting grounds were not affected…’

Platorius Nepos had been eavesdropping. At this, he gave a stifled exclamation. Flaminius saw that he was studying Drustica closely.

‘I remember you now! You came to me more than once, representing some northern tribe. I promised that I would do what I could, and… So that is what this is about! You disguised yourself as a Roman, married one of my aides, wormed your way into my confidence, inveigled Quintus to his doom and then attacked me when I was at my most vulnerable!’

He turned to look at Flaminius. ‘And this fellow, who I banished… Yes, I remember you both. It was in the aftermath of the revolt, and I had many other things on my mind. You have been working against me, then. A conspiracy! I see it now. But why? Are you all agents of the druids?’

Flaminius laughed. ‘Agents of the druids? Not at all. What brought Drustica here I don’t know, but my reasons for coming here have little to do with the druids. Though I did endure their tortures to get hold of the most key to the whole affair.’

He lifted up his right hand to show the ring- he wore.

Platorius Nepos eyed it incuriously. ‘You were an agent of the Commissary when last I met you, although you no longer are. Why should you not wear a courier’s key? Commissary agents, couriers; both are part of the same department.’

‘I took this ring from the finger of Dagodubnos, Archdruid of the Caledonians,’ Flaminius said. ‘And he told me a pretty tale.’

Platorius Nepos shrugged. ‘How very strange,’ he said. ‘I suppose some unlucky courier must have been slain by Caledonians and they took a fancy to his ring. Somehow, I suppose, it ended up as the property of the Archdruid.’

‘And when exactly might this have happened?’ asked Flaminius.

‘How in Hades should I know?’ Platorius Nepos barked. ‘Really, this is intolerable!’

‘Might it not have been, say, five or six years ago?’ Flaminius said. ‘Before the Wall was begun, before Hadrian visited the province. Before you were governor, Platorius Nepos.’

The governor folded his arms. ‘Anything that happened in this province before I took on the post of governor,’ he said, ‘is no concern of mine. I suggest you address your enquiries to the previous incumbent. I believe that Pompeius Falco has now retired from public life, but you might be able to contact him at his private estates near Tusculum.’

Flaminius fingered the lance-head brooch he wore. ‘How did you know that I was no longer working for the Commissary?’ he asked suddenly. He was aware that the procurator was watching the exchange in silence. ‘How did you know that, governor?’

‘How did I know?’ Platorius Nepos blustered. ‘Why, why shouldn’t I know? You have clearly been out of Roman service for some time. That beard needs trimming, might I add?’

Sidonius Placidus laughed a little. Flaminius scowled at him, but then returned his attention to the governor.

‘I’m wearing the insignia of a Commissary agent,’ he pointed out. ‘And surely a man in your exalted position realises that an agent must spend a certain amount of his time undercover, or in disguise. In my time I have played the part of a Praetorian, a gladiator, a merchant and more. I have walked with emperors and been reviled as a slave. But throughout that time I was an agent of Rome. Now, it’s true, I am no longer employed by the Commissary. I have been dismissed. But how did you know?’

Impatiently, Platorius Nepos rasped, ‘I can’t really say. Something told me, that’s all… If you’re no longer in the imperial service, why do you wear the insignia? You have no right!’ He appealed to Sidonius Placidus. ‘This fellow, who seems to have gone some way to taking you in, procurator, is nothing but a fraud.’

‘Perhaps,’ was all the procurator had to say.

‘I appreciate that this must be a difficult moment for you,’ said Flaminius, smiling sympathetically. ‘Very difficult, after such a successful career, to find yourself baited in your own lair by barbarians and out-of-work imperial agents. No wonder you’re having problems remembering things.’

Platorius Nepos watched him unspeaking. Flaminius went on. ‘And what a career it’s been,’ he said. ‘I’ve read a little about you in the files.’

‘Oh, we’ve heard all about the governor’s illustrious career,’ said Drustica dryly. ‘Having an emperor for a friend must have been a great help.’

‘But it wasn’t always like that, though, was it, Aulus Platorius Nepos?’ Flaminius said. ‘It wasn’t so easy in Trajan’s days, now was it?’

Platorius Nepos shrugged, exhaled wearily. ‘Every man’s career must begin somewhere,’ he said. ‘And the start is often weak and faltering. It gains momentum as the years roll by. Very well, I started out as a pipsqueak of a tribune, and much like anyone else running their first lap on the course of honour, I made a pretty poor show, I’ll admit.’

‘When you were in the Fortunate Twenty Second Legion?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Stationed in, where was it, Lower Germany?’

‘Upper Germany, in fact,’ rasped Platorius Nepos. ‘I must say, you commissary fellows know how to do your research. What a pity you decided to go rogue. Hadrian will be very interested to hear all about your misdemeanours.’

‘I don’t quite see what you’re driving at, Tribune Flaminius,’ Sidonius Placidus confessed. ‘From what you had said, you seemed to have some very important evidence, but frankly I haven’t been able to follow what you’ve been saying.’

‘So you were never in Dacia, governor?’ Flaminius asked, ignoring the procurator. ‘While you were a tribune?’

Thin-lipped, Platorius Nepos shook his head. ‘My legion was never stationed in Dacia.’ He gave a mirthless laugh and looked at Sidonius Placidus, who was watching in silence. ‘The man’s an idiot. I take back what I said. The Fortunate Twenty Second was raised by the Emperor Caligula in Upper Germany, at Moguntiacum, and it has remained stationed in Upper Germany until the present day. Even during the Batavian rebellion they remained in the province, when other legions were wiped out. Dacia, my dear young man, is a world away.’

‘That is undeniable,’ the procurator commented. ‘What do you have to say to that, Flaminius?’

‘I know that the legion has always been based in Moguntiacum,’ said Flaminius. ‘However, during Trajan’s wars in Dacia, vexillations of various legions were sent to Moesia, on the frontier with Decebalus’ kingdom, to reinforce the imperial forces. You see, I have indeed done my research, governor. And not so very long ago I read an account in a memorandum written by an agent based in Moesia. It alluded to events occurring shortly after the death of King Decebalus. Events concerning the famous treasure of that barbarian monarch.’

Platorius Nepos half rose. ‘What are you talking about? You couldn’t have read it! That document is kept securely in…’

‘In the imperial archive at Hadrian’s Villa, yes,’ said Flaminius.

The procurator had been listening in puzzlement. ‘Decebalus’ treasure? Much of it was recovered. It made the imperial treasury very rich. What of it?’

‘It was recovered,’ Flaminius agreed, ‘after Decebalus had concealed much of it underneath the River Sargetia, outside his palace. Using captured Romans, he diverted the river, then had a cavity dug into the riverbed, then filled it with hundreds of tons of gold and silver, then buried it, then let the river run along its original course. The rest of it was hidden in caves. What Rome recovered was the merest fraction of Decebalus’ original treasure.’

The governor made a dismissive gesture. ‘Fabulous treasure,’ he said with a low laugh. ‘The fellow’s cracked. He’s telling treasure stories now. Decebalus had a hoard of gold, yes. But its true nature was exaggerated. The amount that was recovered was still substantial. But there never was any more gold than that.’

‘You speak with considerable authority,’ said Flaminius. ‘Well, that’s natural. Since no one knows the truth better than you, governor.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Sidonius Placidus.

Flaminius smiled at him. ‘Only the governor knows the full truth. Because Aulus Platorius Nepos was the name of the tribune commanding the vexillation of the Fortunate Twenty Second Legion that recovered Decebalus’ treasure.’

Silence reigned over the hall. Everyone stared uncertainly at Flaminius.

At last Sidonius Placidus broke the silence. ‘What are you telling us?’ he asked. ‘You say that the governor was, as a young man, in command of a vexillation that was sent to Dacia? That he was involved in recovering the treasure of Decebalus... Well, it is not impossible. What do you say, governor?’

Platorius Nepos looked about the hall with hunted eyes. ‘I was that tribune,’ he admitted. ‘But what of it? I did my duty and had the hoard transported to Rome. I was commended by the emperor himself. No doubt my handling of the affair helped to further my career. And please remember that you are speaking to a Roman senator. I shared the consulate with my old friend Hadrian himself the year before the Ninth Legion met its fate. I am a powerful man.’

‘Ah, the Ninth Legion,’ said Flaminius, smiling broadly. ‘Funny you should mention them! I put it to you that not all the gold of the Dacian king was sent to Rome. Some of it was concealed in Thrace and later despatched by imperial courier to Pompeius Falco, formerly governor of Moesia who had by then moved on to govern the province of Britain. Falco took it with him when he went north to Pinnata Castra with the Ninth Legion, on their fateful last journey, ostensibly to negotiate with Brennos, the Caledonian high king, but in actual fact he intended to use the gold as part of a plot. Some of it was used to bride Brennos to persuade his tribesmen to attack and then surrender after enough fighting to make it convincing. After that, Falco’s agents within the Ninth, paid for with more Dacian gold, were to proclaim him emperor for this famous victory and he would march on Rome—where, conveniently, Hadrian himself would have been assassinated.’

The procurator was astounded. ‘I heard nothing of this! Can it be true? But none of that happened. The Ninth Legion were attacked, yes, but they were slaughtered, as everyone knows. As for his imperial majesty…’

‘An assassination attempt was made,’ said Flaminius dogmatically, ‘at his villa in Tibur. But I was on hand, having learnt about the conspiracy, and I successfully disarmed the assassin before he could achieve his goal. The entire plot was foiled. For the moment. But it was hardly the last conspiracy against the emperor.’

‘But what of the gold?’ the procurator asked. Platorius Nepos was watching in silence now, his face pale and gleaming with sweat.

‘The gold remains where Falco left it,’ Flaminius said, ‘in the ruins of Pinnata Castra. Having fired the place after the slaughter of the Ninth, the Caledonians are now too superstitious to trouble it—all except the thrifty Archdruid, who has quietly been using the gold to feather his own nest. Sadly he suffered an unfortunate accident not so long ago, so now the only person with a clue as to the exact location of the gold is… well, er, me. Oh, and of course, the governor here. I understand that he was planning an expedition into Caledonia. To lay your hands on the gold, no doubt, Aulus? To finance some other conspiracy against Rome?’

‘I know nothing of the gold’s location,’ said Platorius Nepos. ‘All you’ve said is mere supposition. Where is your proof? You say that gold was taken and hidden. You say it was sent to Britain. You say it was all part of a plot against my personal friend the emperor. But where in Hades is your proof?’

Flaminius held up his hand. ‘Here is my proof. This is the key to the chest where the gold lies, courtesy of the Archdruid who found it in the ruins of Pinnata Castra. As you see, it is stamped with a number. That number will correlate with a number in the procurator’s files, dating from when the courier transported it secretly into Britain—no doubt unaware that he was being used to facilitate a conspiracy. As long as the file is still extant, all we need do is to cross reference this number with that in the Londinium file, and we will know on whose authority imperial plunder was sent by imperial courier to assist a conspiracy against his imperial majesty Hadrian.’

There was a click and the door to the procurator’s office swung open.

‘Very good work, Flaminius, and most ably argued,’ said the bearded man who stood in the doorway. ‘I had the utmost faith in your ability.’

—31—

It was Probus.

‘But… you’re dead,’ Flaminius heard himself saying.

‘Dead?’ Drustica was puzzled. ‘Why should you think the Chief is dead?’

He turned to her. ‘I saw him. His body. Charred and burnt.’ He swung round and saw that there was no ring on Probus’ finger. ‘That wasn’t you,’ he added slowly.

Probus advanced into the hall. He wore a long red cloak and the regalia of a tribune of the Sixth Legion, but they fitted him poorly. In his hand he held a scroll. He gave Platorius Nepos a malicious grin, before seating himself on another bench. Then he nodded to Sidonius Placidus.

‘Good day to you, procurator. May I say you keep meticulous records?’

Sidonius Placidus gaped and gasped like a landed fish. He looked to Flaminius then back to Probus again.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And what have you been doing with my files?’

Probus ignored him, but beckoned Flaminius closer. ‘I see you have found the key to the puzzle,’ he said, indicating the ring-key he wore.

Flaminius raised his hand to examine it. ‘This? You knew of it?’

‘I knew that you would follow the trail suggested by the Moesia memorandum,’ Probus said. ‘You were bound to, intelligent lad like you. That was why I sent you to look for it. I already knew that the only man at the back of this must be the one member of the conspiracy who was not netted at Hadrian’s Villa. I had a very good idea who that might be, but I was in no position to make any wild accusations. Not with the emperor’s own catamite working against me.’

‘Antinous?’ asked Flaminius. ‘You’re not saying he was behind this?’

‘As I told you before,’ Probus said, ‘Antinous was a catspaw. But who was the cat?’

He studied the document he had taken from the procurator’s office. ‘Those records are confidential,’ Sidonius Placidus said hotly. ‘You have no right…!’

‘I saw you dead,’ Flaminius told Probus, ignoring the procurator’s outburst. ‘I saw your corpse in the House of the Satyr. Except obviously I didn’t. What happened?’

‘I knew that it would only be a matter of time before the conspirators caught up with us,’ Probus said. ‘You’d not been very subtle in your investigations. You were being followed by commissary agents. They, being connected with the conspiracy, were sending back details of your activities. Despite all my precautions, the new Chief must have realised what we were doing…’

‘He knew more than I did,’ Flaminius said. ‘So you sent me off on a wild goose chase to Hadrian’s Villa. The Moesia memorandum… Then you knew what it said.’

‘I’d read it already,’ Probus told him. ‘Back when I received it in the first place. It was archived in the Villa on my orders. Later, Junius Italicus’ report from Dacia got me thinking. Before I could learn the truth, I was called to the palace and Antinous informed me that my services were no longer required by Rome.’ A savage look crossed his face. ‘When you abstracted it from the library in the palace and I was able to read it at leisure, I became certain. I needed your aid, but I could not be sure that you would not be taken prisoner at some point. You have a lamentable tendency to draw attention to yourself—most remiss in an imperial agent. You were the only one I could trust, other than my civilian agents. But they lacked your advantages.’

‘So there’s something to be said in my favour, is there?’ Flaminius asked wryly.

‘You have many virtues,’ said Probus, with a cursory flap of his hand. ‘But I could not entrust you with too much information because there was a danger that you would betray us under torture. Or even that you might be suborned in some way, blackmailed, corrupted... The first rule of the Commissary is to trust no one.’

‘I’ve learnt that lesson myself,’ said Flaminius bitterly. ‘Learnt it the hard way. So what you’re telling me is that you faked your death after sending me on a futile trip to Tibur?’

‘Your journey was not futile,’ Probus told him. ‘You had enough nous to work out from the memorandum that the last clues would lie in the north. By the time you had found the body of the fellow to whom I had given my ring, I was already on my way to Massalia, the first staging post on my own journey to Britain.’

‘You knew the enemy was going to try and kill you?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Word came to me by secret channels,’ Probus said mysteriously. ‘There was a fellow in the tavern below my lodgings much my height and similar in appearance. A drunk, almost penniless. He was only too glad to accept a spare set of my clothes, and the ring was the clincher on the deal. Sadly he had only too short a time to enjoy his new acquisitions—though it seems he had no time to pawn the ring for more drink.’

‘And then you went to Britain?’ Flaminius asked, with a glance at Drustica, who had been listening in silence. ‘Where you found Drustica had married one of the governor’s personal aides?’

‘I knew already,’ Probus laughed. ‘I encouraged her to seduce Tribune Quintus. It was not long after you were banished from Britain, indeed at the much same time you set sail for Alexandria. I’d had my suspicions for a long time, but with you having made such a nuisance of yourself in the province, I needed another agent. Drustica had already encountered the governor, of course, which was a problem, but the arts Rhoda taught me were sufficient to conceal her British origin and transform her into a child of the Mediterranean.’

Drustica nodded. ‘I also learnt to speak like a born Roman,’ she added. ‘You’ll have noticed the change, no doubt. Then I pursued Tribune Quintus to Eboracum, and proceeded to seduce him. For over a year I lived with him. I had no notion what the plan was, until Probus contacted me again.’

‘And then you gathered together your Carvettian allies, and unleashed Hades?’ Flaminius asked gently.

Drustica lifted a hand for quiet. No longer was the distant sound of slaughter to be heard, but a sullen silence had settled over the fort. ‘The struggle is over, Gaius,’ she said.

‘This is all very interesting,’ the procurator announced patiently, ‘but I don’t see what your intrigues have to do with the case in hand. Accusations have been made, allegations of wrongdoing have been laid at the door of a man of exemplary, nay impeccable character and breeding, a Roman senator and, as we have heard, a personal friend of the emperor. It seems to me that unless any of this can be substantiated, certain people present in this room risk being found guilty of calumny, even conspiracy. I am the only person in this room entitled to pass judgement—I, procurator of the province of Britain, not some nefarious imperial agent who is working on his own, rather than following the orders of his emperor. I have some questions.’

‘Ask away, procurator,’ said Probus. ‘Naturally, we would wish you, as an independent witness of high standing, to have knowledge of the governor’s crimes.’

Platorius Nepos spoke for the first time in some minutes. ‘Wild accusations have indeed been made, strange stories have been told that have reflected poorly upon the tellers of those tales. The procurator is quite right in suggesting that a conspiracy exists. The speakers in this hall have not been coy in admitting that they have deliberately worked against me—for what reason they will not say, but instead they have fabricated these accounts of plots and conspiracies against the emperor, my personal friend. Let us consider the notion that the annihilation of the Ninth Legion was part of some seditious plot to make Pompeius Falco emperor. Has any of this been made public? No. Falco, after he agreed to step down from the post I currently hold, was made proconsul of Asia, and he has now retired from public life with full honours. Never was there any suspicion that he was involved in any conspiracy against the emperor.’

‘He concealed his tracks well,’ Probus admitted. ‘No official acknowledgment was made of his involvement, but I believe that he had nothing more to do with the conspirators afterwards. He had learnt his lesson. And when the other conspirators were exposed, due to their high profile, the emperor did not make the scandal public, preferring rather to dismiss two of the conspirators from his service for becoming “too close” to Vibia Sabina, from which the entire empire inferred this to mean adultery. However, the adultery was only a side issue. You brag about your friendship with the emperor, but at one time his own wife was working against him. And only you, far away in Britain, escaped the net. But not forever.’

‘I must also protest,’ said Sidonius Placidus wearily. ‘More accusations, calumnies, call them what you will. But where is your proof? To whom am I speaking, for the second time of asking? I assume you have no right to wear tribune’s regalia.’

‘I am Chief Centurion Probus of the Commissary,’ Probus said.

‘Ex-chief,’ Platorius Nepos sneered. ‘You were dismissed.’

‘I stand corrected,’ said Probus, with a wry expression. ‘Your lover Antinous did your work well. He poisoned the emperor’s mind against me, had the Peregrine Camp purged of all my supporters, and no doubt has been working to remove all my field agents. All with surprisingly little drama for an adolescent. But of course, a wiser, older man was behind him.’

Platorius Nepos flushed. ‘More calumny,’ he rasped. ‘As my colleague says, where is your proof?’

‘That is easily furnished,’ said Probus. He rose, and unrolled the scroll on the marble surface of the table. ‘Gather round, everyone,’ he added. ‘Procurator, can you identify for us the nature of this document?’

Officiously, Sidonius Placidus pushed past him and examined the scroll. Then he looked up and glanced round the gathered people. His gaze finally settled on Platorius Nepos.

‘This is a bit before my time, I’m afraid,’ he began, not looking at Probus. He examined the document’s seal. ‘As I thought. Pulcher’s time in office. He was my predecessor’s predecessor, poor fellow. I believe he was murdered less than twenty miles away from our current position. A terrible fate…’

‘Yes, yes, we know all about that,’ said Flaminius impatiently. ‘But what does this document say?’

He was peering over the procurator’s shoulder but could make neither head nor tail of the text.

‘It’s a file detailing confidential deliveries into Londinium from other provinces of the empire,’ the procurator explained. ‘It dates from the governorship of Pompeius Falco. On one side we have the numerical code identifying the delivery number. Over here we have the identity of the original sender.’

Excitedly Flaminius inspected his ring key. ‘Can you find the code THR: CXXXXXVII?’ he asked.

Laboriously, the procurator ran a finger down one column. ‘Here it is. And looking across, we can see that the sender of the delivery was…’

Platorius Nepos sprang up. ‘Very well, I sent that delivery,’ he said wildly. ‘Whatever coffer or box that key fits, it was sent to Britain under my authority. But you cannot prove that I was implicated in any plot that Falco or any other fool may have joined.’

Flaminius whirled round. ‘You sent the gold to Britain,’ he said, pointing accusingly. ‘You sent stolen treasure from the hoard of the Dacian king to Pompeius Falco so he could use it to suborn the Ninth Legion. And when you saw a risk of all this finally coming to light, you used your influence to have Probus discredited and dismissed. The Peregrine Camp was staffed with men in your pocket—or the pocket of your associates. You couldn’t have achieved this on your own, not even with the emperor’s personal catamite fawning on your every word. Who else was involved?’

‘That’s for me to know,’ said Platorius Nepos darkly. He turned to Sidonius Placidus and took a deep breath. ‘Very well, procurator. You have heard the word of my accusers. What is your verdict?’

Sidonius Placidus took some time to deliberate with himself. At last he shook his head. ‘It gives me great pain to say that I must use my authority as procurator of the province of Britain to request that you relinquish your post as governor. You will be sent under armed guard to Rome, where his imperial majesty may give his verdict on the matter.’

He looked around for guards, but only Drustica’s Carvettians were available. As one man they moved to surround Platorius Nepos, who raised his hands unwillingly.

There was a commotion from the courtyard. Flaminius went to the main doors and looked out. The place was crowded with scarred and bloody men. Some were Carvettians, others were Roman legionaries. Standing in the middle of them, carrying a limp form in his arms, was Junius Italicus.

‘Sir?’ he said pathetically, and looked down into Rhoda’s sleeping face. ‘Have you not found a medic yet?’

Epilogue

Peregrine Camp, September 125 AD

Probus slammed his clenched fist down on his desk so it rattled and assorted scrolls and writing tablets rattled and bounced. On one finger winked his signet ring. ‘The imperial verdict is that Platorius Nepos cannot be found guilty of any wrongdoing. Despite my testimony, your testimony, the testimony of Sidonius Placidus—he is exonerated. However, he will retire from public life. The new governor of Britain is the recent consul, Lucius Trebius Germanus.’

‘But you’ve got your old job back,’ Flaminius pointed out, lounging against the wall of the office, his arms folded negligently. ‘You’re the Chief again. The Carvettians are at peace, Pons Aelius has been restored to full working order… Everything’s forgiven and forgotten, and I hope that odious brat Antinous got the thrashing he threatened me with.’

Probus shook his head. ‘His imperial majesty could not countenance the notion that his favourite might be implicated. Rather he prefers to consider it a… misunderstanding. He commends me and my assistants for working so assiduously to clear things up.’ The Chief crooked a brow at Flaminius. ‘That means you, of course, not to mention Junius Italicus and Rhoda, who all stood by me in my time of need.’

‘And what about the man who replaced you?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Him and his cronies.’

‘I believe they have been posted to one of the forts on the Limes,’ Probus said, referring to the wild frontier between barbarian Germany and the empire. ‘Perhaps not all were aware they were part of a conspiracy, but nonetheless they have incurred the imperial displeasure. Oh, and another matter. Due to a recommendation you included in your report, Sabina will no longer remain under house arrest at the Tiburtine Villa, but instead will regain the freedom of movement she enjoyed before her indiscretions were exposed. Whether this is a sensible move remains to be seen, but perhaps she has learned her lesson.’

He began sorting through the reports that were neatly stacked up on his desk. ‘Now that Platorius Nepos is out of the way, tribune,’ he went on, not looking at Flaminius directly, ‘I can make better use of your own peculiar talents. There’s no requirement for you to return to Alexandria now all this is over.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Flaminius with feeling. ‘Egypt had got just a little bit too hot for me. I’ll miss Ozymandias and Nitocris, of course,’ he went on, although he knew that the Chief had little or no interest in his personal life, ‘and yet I think it’s important to draw a line under what went on over the last few years. But there’s just one thing I don’t understand,’ he added wryly. ‘Or rather, something I’m not sure about. Something I realised when the evidence proved beyond a doubt that it was Platorius Nepos who was the last member of the conspiracy.

‘This last plot, against the Commissary itself—Platorius Nepos could not have orchestrated it all from Britain. He’s returned to Rome at times, he clearly became more than a little friendly with Antinous at some point, and Antinous repaid his favours with favours of his own. But it could not have been Platorius Nepos, a world away in Britain, working with Antinous here in Rome. I can’t help feeling that there is something else at the back of it all. Someone else. I told you about Arctos, of course, who I clashed with in Egypt. His identity remains a mystery as well... Could there be any connection?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ Probus said. ‘But for the moment, you need not dwell upon your experiences in Egypt. A new commissary officer will be despatched to that dark land. I think Junius Italicus would be the right man for the job, and it is about time he was on active service again. This sentimental obsession of his with young Rhoda is unseemly, even if she seems to reciprocate… I want you to take up a post in Eboracum.’

‘Eboracum?’ asked Flaminius. ‘Britain?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I was forbidden to return to Britain.’

Probus sighed impatiently. ‘That was Platorius Nepos’ doing. The erstwhile governor of Britain is now expending his considerable energies in the brickwork industry, it seems, and let us hope it keeps him occupied now that a public career is denied him. No, you have nothing to fear about with the new governor. Trebius Germanus is deemed to be a sound man by all accounts. And you will be working alongside him to ensure the security of that insecure province.’

‘I will?’ Flaminius looked Probus up and down. ‘You’re making me Commissary officer for Britain?’ He grinned wryly. ‘The post that you held shortly before you became Chief?’

‘Don’t go getting too ambitious,’ Probus said reprovingly. ‘It’s no guarantee of promotion, tribune. Yes, I think between the experience you gained in Egypt, and your existing links with and knowledge of Britain, you should make a useful aide for a new governor while he is still finding his feet.’ He went on. ‘You know the local language well, you know how the druids work, you have close connections with important people on the frontier. Despite the fight at Pons Aelius, the Carvettians remain friendly with Rome, and with you as its representative.’

‘And Drustica is a Roman citizen, of course,’ Flaminius pointed out.

Probus nodded in acknowledgement. ‘What is more, you have developed a close working relationship with this most able of Romano-Britons. She makes a superb civilian agent. I found working alongside her highly congenial, and I gather you feel much the same way. So you will set forth for Britain straightaway, to take up your new post. Your first task will be to plan a way to retrieve the treasure of Decebalus from Pinnata Castra. The imperial treasury requires that gold to feed its ever hungry coffers.’

‘What, no holiday?’ asked Flaminius, with a laugh. ‘No leave? Not even a couple of weeks in Baiae?’

Since their return to Rome with Platorius Nepos as their prisoner, most of his time had been spent in work of one sort or another. There had been that night when they had made a round of the wine shops of the Argiletum—not Probus, of course, Flaminius had gone with Junius Italicus and Rhoda.

And that had been the problem. The grizzled centurion and the young thief had been so absorbed in each other, Flaminius had felt rather left out, and had in fact left them to it, getting dead drunk on his own in some low brothel… But the morning after he had felt truly awful. He really was getting too old for this.

His thoughts turned to Drustica. She had remained in Britain, with her tribe on the frontier. The aftermath of the fight in the fort had been bitter for many of her people, but they had welcomed the summary departure of Platorius Nepos.

‘Tribune Flaminius,’ said Probus reprovingly. ‘As you have yourself intimated, in foiling this conspiracy, we have only hewn off one head of the Hydra that threatens the empire. You have seen in Egypt as you saw in Britain that any number of barbarian menaces are ravening at the edges of empire. And in Rome and elsewhere, you have seen the corruption and iniquity at the empire’s heart. Between them, the empire is doomed. Sooner or later, Rome will fall, as must all things in this transient world. All we can do is to stave off the inevitable destruction. I do not hanker after leave or rest, and I see no reason why you should. That is why I am sending you to Britain, and Junius Italicus to Egypt.’

Flaminius folded his arms. ‘Don’t send Junius Italicus to Egypt, for Isis’ sake,’ he urged him. ‘He’d hate it. The flies, the heat, the stink; it’s worse than Rome in the Dog Days of summer. I suggest you send him to Britain. He knows it about as well as I do, and he’s a good man.’

‘Lacks initiative,’ Probus grumbled. ‘And where will you be, if Junius Italicus is despatched to Britain? Don’t tell me you would rather go back to Egypt yourself?’

Visions of that dusty land drifted through Flaminius’ mind. The thronging crowds of Alexandria; Greek, Egyptian, Roman and more... The stink of sweat and smoke and incense and cooking fires... The cyclopean walls of crumbling ruins from a time forgotten... The flash of blades in the hot air of a sandy arena… The endless waters of the Nile Delta during the inundation, the papyrus reeds swaying in the breeze, a lone boat slowly crossing the swollen channels with river pirates crowding its deck... And the desert, its hot and spicy air filled with stinging particles of sand, while naked nomads traversed the dunes... A wasteland of black mountains, like some extrusion of the pits of Tartarus…A lost desert city where men drove chariots beneath lowering desert crags…

‘No.’ He rose, and fumbled at the lance-head brooch he wore—not Junius Italicus’ but his own, recently restored to him. ‘I’m going to Britain too.’

He undid the brooch and dropped it with a clink on the table.

He’d been thinking about this for a long time; now he had finally made his mind up. ‘But not to work for the Commissary. I’m resigning, Chief. I’m going to Luguvalium, where Drustica is waiting for me. I intend to become her second husband.’

Without another word, without waiting for Probus’ response, Flaminius strode from the office.

Probus reached out and picked up the brooch. He turned it first one way then another, so it glinted in the flickering light of the oil lamp. Then, dismissively, he let it drop with a clatter to the desk.

‘He’ll be back,’ he said complacently to himself. ‘The Commissary is in his blood now.’ He looked up, and his eyes did not see the cracked stucco walls of his office deep in the Peregrine Camp, but something else, some wide and endless vista known only to himself. ‘Oh yes, he’ll be back.’

[1] See The Hadrian Legacy.

[2] A rose scented Roman perfume.

[3] See The Kingdom that Rome Forgot.

[4] Modern Romania.

[5] The Roman public records office.

[6] Modern Tivoli.

[7] See On Hadrian’s Secret Service.

[8] Not to be confused with the Twenty Second (Deiotaran) Legion, based in Egypt.

[9] A province in the modern Balkans, including parts of former Yugoslavia and Bulgaria.

[10] See Murder in Hadrian’s Villa.

[11] Inchtuthil, Perth and Kinross, Scotland.

[12] Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

[13] London.

[14] See On Hadrian’s Secret Service.

[15] Corbridge.

[16] See The Hadrian Legacy.

[17] Modern Bulgaria.