Murder in Hadrian's Villa Read online

  ‘Back the way we came, at the double,’ he barked. ‘Come on, you pigs.’ As Flaminius marched past, the centurion growled, ‘I’ll see you when we get back to camp, soldier.’

  This was where it got really difficult. Not only had that eagle eyed chief centurion recognised him in the dark—as the negligent Praetorian with the untied chinstrap, at least—when he got back to barracks, his cover would be doubly blown. He would be recognised for the imposter he was, and also it would be realised that he was an escaped prisoner. The auspices did not bode well. Even the glibbest of augurs could not make them look good.

  The buildings on either side of the street echoed back the tramp of the guards’ feet. Starlight filtered down through clouds. Cohort after cohort marched towards the Praetorian camp and their bunks. Fabricius Cotta supressed a yawn. No doubt if a man from the rank and file had yawned, he’d have been put on a charge immediately.

  They reached the top of the hill. Ahead stood the tumbledown Servian Walls. Now they were only a short way from the walls of the camp, where Flaminius would pay the price for this night’s escapade. Unless he could find some way to escape.

  He managed to fall back, right to the rear of the column. The cohort marched out into the Praetorian parade ground. An alleyway opened up on his right, like a hungry mouth. He lagged behind a little more.

  Then he dashed to the side of the road, dropped his spear and shield beside a pillar, yanked off the offending helmet, and hurried into the stinking blackness.

  The alleyway swallowed him up.

  —17—

  Rome, Praetorian Barracks, 12th April 122 AD

  Flaminius lay back on the hard bench, the sweat from his recent exertions drying on his body. The barracks block rang with the noise of Praetorians returning after the manoeuvres. He had got back just in time, slamming the door behind him with only seconds to spare.

  He panted, trying to get his breath back. It would only be a short time, he knew, before he was taken out and tried for assaulting a fellow officer.

  As it happened, it took long enough for Flaminius to fall asleep, even on that cold, hard bench. He awoke an indeterminate time later, his mouth like a desert, the sweat having dried to a crust. He stank like a slave, like a barbarian.

  The door was still closed. What had woken him? He heard footsteps in the passage, followed by voices, and then the door creaked open.

  Junius Italicus entered. Flaminius looked up at him. The centurion looked at him curiously. ‘This door was unlocked,’ he said. ‘I was expecting you to have gone.’

  ‘And add desertion to my list of crimes?’ said Flaminius tiredly. ‘Get out of here, unless you bring news of my release. And lock that door behind you.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Junius Italicus, and departed. Flaminius heard the key in the lock again.

  ‘And bring me some breakfast!’ he shouted. He heard the centurion’s footsteps receding, but nothing more.

  He really was hungry. The night’s exertions had taken it out of him, and the sleep he’d had hadn’t been as restful as it could have. He rolled over and tried to get comfortable.

  The gaoler called shortly after, and brought him a bowl of gruel which was bland and tasteless but satisfying.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Flaminius asked.

  The gaoler had shadows under his eyes. ‘That’s for the prefect to decide,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll concern himself with you for a while. He had a busy night of it. We all did.’

  Flaminius spent the rest of the day staring up at the ceiling, trying to puzzle out what had happened. Septicius Clarus, midnight manoeuvres, the Senate House. How did all this link with the poisoning of Messalus? the murder of Rufinus Crassus? the attempted assassination of the emperor? A dry run, the prefect had called it. A dry run for what?

  The door opened again and Junius Italicus entered, flanked by Praetorians.

  ‘The prefect wants to speak with you,’ he said, ‘in his office. Come with us.’

  Flaminius rose and stretched. ‘Very well,’ he said, sounding indifferent, even bored, but his thighs were quaking.

  It was time he faced up to his destiny. A shame he couldn’t get a message to Probus beforehand.

  He had a feeling that the prefect would use this as an opportunity to get rid of him. After all, there’d been several attempts on Flaminius’ life already. What now? Perhaps he would be executed on trumped up charges. Or would he merely be seconded to a legion on some perilous frontier? Back to Britain, maybe.

  Arms fettered, he was marched from the barracks block by his own men, out into the bright sunlight of afternoon. They marched up the almost deserted Praetorian Way to the headquarters building, where he was led to the prefect’s office.

  ‘Prisoner and escort, reporting to the prefect,’ Junius Italicus barked to the two guards outside the office doors. With smart salutes they ushered the centurion and his prisoner inside.

  Septicius Clarus was leafing through a sheaf of reports as Flaminius was hustled into the room. He flung them down with a clatter and rose, marching from behind the desk with his hand extended.

  ‘Why is this man chained?’ he said in outrage, glaring at the centurion.

  ‘But sir....’ Junius Italicus began.

  Septicius Clarus’ eyes narrowed. ‘Tribune Flaminius has been given the task of investigating your predecessor’s murder, centurion! Set him free at once, and get out!’

  As Flaminius’ hands were unfettered, the prefect waved to a chair. ‘Sit, sit!’ He clicked his fingers at a clerk. ‘Wine for my guest!’

  Slowly, carefully, Flaminius sat down. Was this some kind of trick? The bewildered Junius Italicus marched his men back outside. Flaminius accepted a beaker of wine from the clerk but didn’t dare drink from it.

  Septicius Clarus beamed at him jovially.

  ‘Little misunderstanding,’ he said, ‘understandable reaction…Have to apologise to Fabricius Cotta, of course…I’ve reinstated you at the empress’ express wish. Glad to have you with us in the Guard.’

  Flaminius sat up.

  ‘The empress?’ he said.

  The prefect nodded. ‘When she heard why you wouldn’t be on duty,’ he said, ‘she wanted to know why. I explained what had happened. She told me that “boys would be boys” and that I should have you released at once.’ He twinkled. ‘You’re a lucky fellow,’ he added, ‘having the favour of the empress.’

  Despite the twinkle, Flaminius thought there was something cold lurking in those eyes.

  ‘I’m back on duty?’ he asked, staring warily at the beaker.

  ‘For the moment,’ the prefect said, ‘your place on the roster has in fact been taken by Fabricius Cotta and men of his cohort. But this is only a temporary measure, and you will be returning to palace duties in the near future. For the present, however, I suggest you relax. And perhaps…’ he coughed, ‘spend some time in the bathhouse.’

  Flaminius rose. He shook the prefect’s hand vigorously.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your advice.’

  ‘Your wine…!’ the prefect protested. But Flaminius had already left the office.

  In the camp bathhouse he had a long soak and considered his next move. The empress had rescued him. She really wanted him to find out who had killed Messalus. He doubted that it was for the best of reasons, but at least it had saved his hide for the moment. He’d need to win back the respect of his men; he’d visit them later and impress upon them the fact that he had received an imperial pardon and been exonerated. But he who excuses himself accuses himself, as some clever fellow or other once said. Perhaps it would be better to say nothing and act as if the whole sorry episode had not happened.

  At least he wasn’t commanding a cohort in the field. Regaining the trust of an active command would be important, not to say impossible. At least he was only in charge of a spit and polish gang of Praetorians, not real soldiers.

  His ablutions completed, he dressed and departed the bathho
use. After all, he was an imperial agent first and foremost. Being a Praetorian tribune was nothing more than a cover. And since the empress was actively supporting him in his investigations, he could move more freely. He’d leave confronting his men for the time being and go and report to Probus. He had a lot to tell him.

  In the Castra Peregrina, Probus listened intently.

  ‘Not only was Septicius Clarus involved in these manoeuvres, but a senator, too? Pity you didn’t recognise him. Well, well…’

  ‘You don’t seem too surprised,’ Flaminius commented. ‘He was there to take the place of the emperor in the exercise.’

  Probus shook his head. ‘Take the place of the emperor,’ he said. ‘The gall!’

  Flaminius frowned. ‘I don’t trust Septicius Clarus anymore. He offered me wine. I avoided drinking it.’

  ‘Very wise,’ Probus said. ‘The prefect doesn’t like you. Speaking of wine…’ He poured them both beakers.

  Flaminius’ instinct was to swap them the moment his colleague’s back was turned, but he suppressed it. He had to trust someone, and surely the stolid Probus hadn’t been suborned.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, raising it to his lips.

  ‘The manoeuvres involved the Guard taking an imperial candidate to the Senate House,’ Probus went on. ‘That sounds like treason. A variant on the plot we encountered in Britain.’

  ‘You mean some senator is taking Falco’s place?’

  Probus looked grim. ‘I think some senator always intended to do that,’ he said. ‘I think some senator’s been in this plot up to his neck from day one. We’re still no closer to learning who poisoned Messalus, but that’s immaterial. If the Praetorian prefect is planning to assist some senator on his road to power, what have they got planned for Hadrian?’

  ‘The emperor’s still in Britain, isn’t he?’ Flaminius asked.

  Probus shook his head. ‘Ha! There’s one advantage of the work I’ve been asked to do since Cassius Nero took me off the case,’ he said, ‘I read all the reports from that corner of the empire. Hadrian has left his building work to the legions, who are still walling off lowland Britain from the areas controlled by the Caledonians, and he’s now in Spain, with North Africa next on the itinerary….’

  ‘Do you think they mean to seize power while he’s on this provincial odyssey?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Perhaps we should tell the empress. But I’ve heard only good spoken of the emperor by the Praetorians. They don’t sound like they’re ready for a coup.’

  ‘One thing has always been able to change the Praetorians’ minds for them, when it comes to their avowed loyalty to the emperor,’ Probus said, and he rubbed together the fingers of his right hand. ‘Filthy lucre.’

  ‘Money?’ Flaminius’ eyes widened. ‘The raid on the wages train!’

  Probus nodded savagely. ‘Exactly that. Every time the Praetorian Guard has supported a new emperor, they have done so because they were promised a donative of any amount of gold. The emperor Galba failed to deliver, so they deposed him; looks like the plotters want to avoid this. If they can shower the Praetorians with gold straightaway, it will strengthen their position. That must be what they’re planning with this raid.’

  ‘But how can they pay the Praetorians in future,’ Flaminius said, ‘if the wages have all be paid in advance, as a donative?’

  Probus shrugged. ‘No doubt the conspirators mean to raise the cash elsewhere. Provincial taxes are unpopular but easily enforced.’

  ‘We need to do something about this,’ Flaminius said decisively. ‘But what can we do? As far as the Chief is concerned, you’re off the case. I’m officially investigating for the empress, but…’

  ‘I’ve already spoke to the old fool,’ Probus said. ‘He’s agreed to gather together a force of commissary agents and we’re going to patrol the Portus Way on the Ides of April, keeping an eye on the wages train.’

  ‘I see,’ said Flaminius doubtfully.

  ‘What is it?’ Probus asked.

  ‘If we go down in force,’ Flaminius said, ‘won’t that just frighten them off, whoever it is?’

  Probus shrugged. ‘What if it does? As long as the raid is stopped…’

  ‘They’ll only try again at a later date,’ Flaminius said. ‘We should use this as an opportunity to lure the conspirators out into the open. Right now we don’t have a lot of evidence, just things we’ve picked up here and there. The main suspect has been murdered. Septicius Clarus seems to be in it up to his neck, but where’s the evidence? Accuse powerful men like him without hard evidence and where will that get us? Not on the road to career advancement.’

  Probus nodded broodingly. ‘You’re improving,’ he conceded. ‘The Chief’s plan is as unsubtle as the man himself. We want to protect the Praetorian wages train but we also want to arrest the conspirators. Even if Septicius Clarus isn’t there on the night, we could net a few who may be able to identify them.’

  He rose. ‘We’ll go and tell Cassius Nero.’

  Flaminius rose. Feeling a little nervous, he followed Probus from the office. He was glad it wasn’t him who had to tell the Chief he was wrong.

  On hearing the news, Cassius Nero’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Probus to Flaminius and back. Then he slammed his fist down on the desk.

  ‘We’ve got to stop them robbing that wages train,’ he said. ‘This convenient note wasn’t convenient enough to tell us where exactly. There are fifteen miles between here and Portus Trajanorum, and you want to pussyfoot around trying to catch the robbers? We guard the wages train with a show of force. If that discourages them, so much the better. We don’t want to encourage them!’

  ‘As the boy pointed out to me,’ Probus said, ‘they’ll only try again at some point in the future. To deal with the problem we’ve got to look at the causes. If we can take the conspirators prisoner, we may be able to trace them back to the originator. Identify him and we will root the conspiracy out completely. Scare them off this time and they will make another attempt. And this time I doubt they’ll leave their plans lying around, even in cipher.’

  He banged on the desk in return. ‘Don’t you see? This is our chance. We may never have another one.’

  Cassius Nero sat back, looking thoughtful.

  ‘Very well, we’ll do it your way—to a point,’ he conceded. ‘We’ll have commissary agents posted at regular points along the road, in concealment, and others shadowing the consignment as it comes up from the coast.’

  He pointed at Flaminius. ‘And since you’ve shown yourself to be such a promising youngster, you can lead the guards on the wages train.’ He turned to Probus. ‘You will be coordinating the agents in hiding along the route.’

  Probus nodded slowly. ‘This might just work,’ he said.

  Flaminius looked from one to the other. He didn’t feel so optimistic.

  —18—

  Portus Trajanorum, Ides of April (13th April) 122 AD

  A day later, as he rode into Portus Trajanorum at the head of a group of mounted guards, the same objections stirred in Flaminius’ mind. Even though it was him who had persuaded the Chief, he still remained full of misgivings. As Cassius Nero had said, the route the wages train would take along the Portus Way, which lay between Portus Trajanorum and Rome, was fifteen miles.

  Even with agents posted along the route, as had already been done, it would be difficult to coordinate the exercise over such a distance. Flaminius’ own work was relatively easy, although the agent who was escorting the money upriver in a series of barges probably had the simplest job of all.

  If the robbers attacked at any point, and there were several lonely spots between here and the Roman suburbs that they might choose, some time might elapse before Probus’ reinforcements could come to their aid.

  The men under Flaminius’ temporary command were Imperial Horse Guards. Fiercely loyal to the emperor, the Germanic horsemen were said to be more trustworthy than the Praetorians themselves. The warriors reminded Flaminius of his earlier command, when he
was tribune of auxiliary horse in the Ninth Legion.

  Remembering the Ninth turned his thoughts to the massacre in Caledonia, and how his Germanic decurion Hrodmar had been crippled for life in the unequal fight. That had been during the first stage of the fight against the conspirators. He vowed an altar to Mars if the coming fight could be settled without so much slaughter.

  At the wharves, he reported to the harbourmaster, a bearded fat man with a cast in one eye, and presented his credentials.

  ‘You’re on the wages train detail are you, tribune?’ the man asked idly. ‘The money is all under armed guard in warehouse 20. Sign this chitty’—he handed over a papyrus document—‘and it’s all yours.’

  The next morning dawned clear and bright and Flaminius set out at the head of the Horse Guards with his heart filled with a mixture of optimism and trepidation. At the centre of the column was a line of pack mules weighed down with strongboxes. All Flaminius had to do was lead the column back to Rome while preparing himself for the inevitable attack.

  He expected that it would come at the loneliest point, which would be halfway between the port and the city, but by his calculations they would be riding in bright sunlight by then. Perhaps the attackers would wait until nightfall, but that would mean being close to the edge of the city, bringing with it the greater possibility of capture.

  Flaminius had seen no sign of commissary agents along the route from Rome and he saw none as they rode back, but he knew they were there. Perhaps that group of horse traders waiting outside the inn they’d just passed had been Probus’ men. Maybe the Isis devotees who chanted as they marched up the road were agents. Even Flaminius did not know what disguises they had adopted.

  But the wind was keen and clean, the clip clop of hoofs and the smell of the horses took Flaminius back to a time when life had been much simpler, before the commissary enmeshed him in its folds. He realised that he’d been happy, looking back at it, when he had been an auxiliary tribune.