Murder in Hadrian's Villa Page 9

  He wanted to know where they had gone. To the palace, presumably, or else back to camp. And on whose authority? Septicius Clarus outranked him… but it was something of a liberty. Of course, it could be suggested that he had been absent without leave. He dismissed the notion and returned his thoughts to the investigation.

  ‘You know that a slave’s testimony won’t count in court unless it’s produced under torture?’ Flaminius’ thoughts had turned to the events of the previous night.

  ‘I do know the law, yes,’ said Probus. He stood on the edge of a colonnade, leaning against one of the pillars that lined it. ‘We’d have got nothing from that wretch by torturing him.’

  Flaminius sat down. ‘So what did we learn? A few threads of wool, one with purple dye...’

  ‘What does purple dye suggest to you?’ Probus interrupted, coming to sit beside him.

  Flaminius stared at him. ‘A senator or an equestrian, depending on the width of the stripe.’ His own toga, which he had only worn on formal occasions even before he’d become a soldier, had a narrow purple stripe. Very pricey too. Purple was incredibly expensive. That was why the emperor wore a purple cloak, and why people spoke of “assuming the purple” when they meant becoming emperor.

  ‘A shame the slave couldn’t say how thick it was,’ Probus said. ‘If it had been a senator, we’d have our man. How many senators or equestrians were swanning about the Villa in togas that night?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ said Flaminius. ‘The only equestrians I’ve seen about the place apart from myself have been the imperial secretary, Suetonius Tranquillus, and the prefect…’

  ‘Back to the prefect again,’ said Probus. ‘And yet he has that alibi. We’ll have to test it. It could be faked. Some questions need to be asked. It looks like we’ll have to follow the empress back to Rome.’

  ‘That’ll make us popular,’ Flaminius said. Sitting here watching the sun beaming through the trees, he didn’t really feel like going back to the city.

  Probus rose. ‘Come on,’ he said. Unwillingly, Flaminius followed.

  A quarter of an hour later they were riding out of the deserted Villa, up the track to the Tiburtine Way. Flaminius looked behind him as they galloped through the park. The Villa nestled tranquilly on its hill, without a sign of life. He wondered what the slaves were doing in the tunnels beneath, now that there were no citizens for them to serve.

  It was late in the day when they reached the city and made their way through the bustling streets to the Castra Peregrina on the Caelian Hill. Probus had decided to go there before continuing his investigations. But as he was entering his office at the back of the building, Flaminius in tow, another centurion approached and told Probus that Cassius Nero was looking for him.

  ‘He wants a word,’ the centurion added ominously.

  Probus looked at Flaminius. ‘You’d better come with me, lad.’

  They reached the office of the chief commissary centurion shortly afterwards. Probus rapped irritably on the door. A gruff voice said, ‘Come.’ Probus pushed open the door and strode in. Flaminius followed into the medium sized office, a little nervous.

  Centurion Cassius Nero was a large man in his late fifties, whose silver hair sat oddly atop a youthful, impossibly handsome face marred by lines of care, jowls like a tomcat and a nose so broken it was almost flat. He sat back in his simple chair, one foot up on the desk, and looked suspiciously at Probus.

  ‘I’ve had complaints about you, Julius Probus,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

  There was a scar on his neck, in the shape of a star. Flaminius had heard that he had been shot in the throat with a Sarmatian arrow while in the legions, and although he had survived, it had had a permanent effect on his voice.

  Probus grabbed a stool and perched on it without waiting to be invited. He gestured irritably at Flaminius to sit. Flaminius smiled appealingly at Cassius Nero.

  ‘Sit, boy, sit,’ the centurion whispered. Flaminius sat, feeling like Ulysses in the cave of the cyclops as the two big men glared at each other.

  ‘Complaints?’ Probus barked. ‘Who’s been complaining?’

  Cassius Nero’s jowls wobbled in disgust. ‘Never you mind, Julius Probus! I agreed to this investigation you proposed, although there’s been no word from the emperor, on the condition that you’d keep a low profile.’ He gestured at Flaminius. ‘This lad was seconded to the Praetorians so you’d not need to shove your own repellent snout into her imperial majesty’s affairs. And what’s this I hear you’ve been up to? All without my authority, might I add?’

  Flaminius was about to point out that it had been his idea to ask Probus to get involved when he thought better of it. Anyway, Probus should have told the Chief what he was doing.

  ‘I have complaints of my own to make,’ Probus blustered. ‘I told the empress and her entourage to remain in the Villa but they blatantly disobeyed me! And before that, someone tried to murder my assistant.’ He gestured at Flaminius in his turn.

  Cassius Nero put a hand to his brow. He removed it and looked straight at Probus. ‘We in the Commissary,’ he whispered, ‘are very privileged. Literally above the law, we answer only to the emperor. That does not mean, however, that you can put the empress under house arrest! You’re acting as naively as I would expect this lad to behave.’

  He waved a hand at Flaminius, who quietly resented his suggestion; he wondered if he should remind them of his name, since they both seemed to have forgotten it.

  ‘By the way,’ Cassius Nero went on, ‘her imperial majesty also complained about you carrying off the Praetorian tribune on duty.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Obviously I couldn’t explain that he was one of our undercover agents.’

  ‘You must understand the need for this investigation,’ Probus said. ‘Do I need to explain it to you again? There was a murder, politically motivated. The most likely suspect has also been murdered and my assistant has been blamed. He’s no longer under suspicion, ironically the empress has demanded that he investigate the murder for her, but whoever’s responsible for one murder must surely be responsible for the other. And who benefits? Whoever it was who induced Rufinus Crassus to make an assassination attempt on the emperor. Do you want me to give up the investigation just because the empress has had her nose put out of joint?’

  ‘That’s enough, centurion!’ Cassius Nero wheezed. He calmed down. ‘Yes, I understand the need. We need to root out all potential traitors and conspirators—not with pre-emptive strikes like Prefect Attianus, which served only to confirm the Senate’s fears about Hadrian, but through unobtrusive investigations. Unobtrusive, Probus. Now, we have this lad as an undercover agent. Assuming his cover hasn’t been blown, I see no reason why he can’t continue to investigate. Indeed, you say the empress had commissioned him independently to do exactly that.

  ‘But you, Probus, need to back off. As soon as they see you’re involved, the conspirators will be afraid that the emperor is investigating them and they will panic; go to ground or feel that their hands are being forced. We could lose all the advantage we have gained or else we might be faced with a premature strike for power. More haste, less speed; that was always Augustus’ maxim.’

  ‘Leave it all to the lad?’ Probus said. ‘That’s never going to work, you old fool.’

  ‘Centurion Probus!’ Cassius Nero said reprovingly. ‘You’re going too far.’

  Flaminius looked from one to the other. ‘I…’ he began.

  Probus looked at him irritably. ‘What is it, lad?’

  Flaminius sighed inwardly. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to continue the investigation,’ he said, ‘now I have the empress’ blessing. And I think we could use Medea as an agent. She’s been helpful so far.’

  ‘Me stay in my office while you indulge your usual penchant for melodrama?’ Probus growled. ‘Next thing we know you’ll have seduced the empress herself, you young dog!’

  Cassius Nero wheezed with laughter. Flaminius grimaced. ‘Little chance of that.’ She wa
s old enough to be his mother!

  ‘So there was no need for you, Probus, to poke your nose in without being asked,’ added Cassius Nero.

  ‘I was called in,’ Probus said.

  ‘You were what?’ Cassius Nero demanded. ‘By whom?’

  Probus smiled humourlessly. ‘By the lad here. He didn’t think he was capable of carrying out the investigation on his own.’

  ‘So you didn’t just go blundering in?’ the Chief said.

  ‘No I did not!’ Probus exploded. ‘The lad sent for me!’

  ‘Flaminius,’ Flaminius insisted.

  ‘Yes, Flaminius,’ Probus acknowledged. ‘You say you’ve trained this handmaiden as an agent?’ he added, changing the subject. ‘Very enterprising. But is she trustworthy?’

  ‘Of course!’ Flaminius said. ‘She’s been very helpful so far.’

  ‘She refused to provide you with an alibi for Messalus’ death,’ Probus growled.

  Flaminius brooded.

  ‘We weren’t together at the time of death, so she couldn’t, in all conscience,’ he said at last. ‘She’s an honest girl.’

  ‘The worst kind.’ Cassius Nero laughed hoarsely. ‘And you propose this “honest” girl as an agent? She’ll get eaten alive.’

  ‘No,’ said Probus. ‘The lad—sorry, Flaminius—has a point. She’s in a good position to learn what we need to know.’

  ‘We may not need to endanger her,’ Flaminius added. ‘I’ve been commissioned to investigate, and why shouldn’t I speak to her? I’ll have some explaining to do as far as my having left the Villa goes, but I’ll make sure that they realise it was all your fault.’ He grinned. ‘You can stay here and decipher those notes we found.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Probus said, ‘so much.’

  Cassius Nero gave his wheezing laugh. ‘Very well. Probus, you’re to stay behind in base. We’ll let this keen young tribune prove himself. If that falls through, we have other agents.’

  ‘You mean Medea, sir?’ Flaminius asked.

  ‘Oh yes, Medea…’ Cassius Nero rasped. ‘Among others.’

  —10—

  Rome, Palatine Hill, 10th April, 122 AD

  A quarter of an hour later, Flaminius marched up to the latticed gates of the Imperial Palace. A complex of buildings constructed at various points in Rome’s history, the palace stood upon the ridge of the Palatine Hill, overlooking the Roman Forum on one side and the Circus Maximus on the other.

  Two Praetorians stood on guard, wearing togas like citizens, with nothing to hint at their true identity other than military belts and the inevitable military haircuts. Flaminius was similarly dressed; he wore a concealed sword beneath his toga, just as he knew the guards did. The law stated that weapons could not be carried within the sacred precincts of Rome, and the Palatine Hill was at the heart of the city. Concealed weapons were not really permitted, but the emperor needed some protection from his beloved citizenry.

  Flaminius saluted the two guards, members of his own cohort. ‘Tribune Flaminius reporting for duty,’ he said formally.

  ‘Watchword?’ asked one guard.

  ‘Vigilance!’ Flaminius replied.

  The guards exchanged glances. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said one worriedly. ‘We do recognise you, of course, but the password was changed on orders of the Prefect himself. We can’t permit you to enter.’

  Flaminius shouldered up to the man and stared him in the eyes. ‘Are you refusing to allow your own tribune access to the Imperial Palace?’

  It was hot, and the climb from the Roman Forum had tired him. He wasn’t ready to argue with Praetorians.

  ‘Sir,’ said the guard. ‘I must obey my orders.’

  ‘It’s alright, soldier,’ came a gruff voice as a familiar figure stepped from a wicket gate. ‘Her imperial majesty has given orders that Tribune Flaminius be sent to her the moment he reaches the palace.’

  First Spear Junius Italicus gave Flaminius a frown, then led him past the motionless guards into the cool, dark depths of the Imperial Palace.

  ‘When there was no sign of you or Centurion Probus,’ Junius Italicus answered Flaminius’ questions in a whisper, ‘the empress grew angry, and resolved to return to Rome as she had wished. She wouldn’t let a centurion tell her what to do, whatever his authority. The Prefect took over your command. I had no option other than to do as he ordered.’

  Flaminius looked at him oddly. He seemed less sullen, more helpful than before. Perhaps his promotion had altered his view of Flaminius.

  ‘I see,’ was all he said.

  He allowed his centurion to lead him to a pillared courtyard garden at the back of the House of Augustus, the central building of the palace complex. Here the empress sat sunning herself while a few of her handmaidens sat nearby, chatting and giggling. Medea was not present.

  Two Praetorians discreetly stood guard in opposite corners of the garden, while Suetonius Tranquillus sat on a cushion, glowering at a scroll he held in his hand as he declaimed in a drone. Prefect Septicius Clarus stood over the empress, his hands folded. Flaminius was now beginning to realise why the prefect had seldom been seen at the Praetorian camp; he was constantly at the empress’ side. At least he was while the emperor was away.

  Septicius Clarus turned in surprise as Centurion Junius Italicus marched up and saluted. Flaminius echoed the salute and Septicius Clarus returned it. The empress gave a ringing peal of laughter, followed by her handmaidens.

  Septicius Clarus grinned. ‘You find our soldierly solemnities amusing?’ he asked. Suetonius Tranquillus looked up irritably from his scroll.

  The empress fanned at her face, then directed a slave with an ostrich feather to do the same. ‘You certainly are solemn,’ she said. ‘You know, it’s unusual, but I feel happier in the palace here than I did at the Villa. Usually it’s the other way round.’ She grew solemn. ‘Perhaps it is because this place has not been polluted with death.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Suetonius Tranquillus, looking up from his scroll. ‘If you permit me to continue my reading, I will persuade you otherwise.’

  The empress shuddered. ‘Why must you always rake up such lurid tales?’ she asked. ‘This obsession with Augustus and his successors. Why can’t we hear more of the stories Livy told, about the good old days of the Republic?’

  ‘Because Livy has already told them,’ Suetonius Tranquillus murmured. ‘I see I’m not appreciated here. If your imperial majesty will permit me, I shall return to the library and continue my researches.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the empress vaguely. ‘I must speak with Tribune Flaminius, besides. I have no time to listen to the fate of Domitian just now.’

  Suetonius Tranquillus strode from the courtyard. The empress turned to gaze up at Septicius Clarus, and reached up to touch his hand. They exchanged a smile, and then she turned to regard Flaminius. Septicius Clarus followed her gaze. His jovial face turned solemn.

  ‘You have some explaining to do, tribune,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to do your duties.’

  ‘You vanished from the Villa without asking my permission,’ the empress said coldly. ‘It put me in mind of what that odious centurion Probus had said, about wanting to see who would run. I know you have been exonerated from this murder, but you did cast suspicion on yourself. Where have you been?’

  ‘I went with Centurion Probus to carry out my investigations,’ Flaminius said.

  ‘I will have words about that centurion with my husband when he returns,’ the empress murmured disapprovingly. ‘Very well, you are forgiven. I am glad to see that the hero of yesterday has not become today’s villain. Now please return to your duties!’

  Flaminius nodded to Centurion Junius Italicus and they both saluted before marching from the courtyard.

  In the duty tribune’s office Flaminius familiarised himself with his duties. ‘Has the Night Watch been set?’ he asked. Centurion Junius Italicus nodded. ‘Watchwords given?’ Centurion Junius Italicus nodded again. ‘Patrols set?’ Centurion Junius Italicus nodded ye
t again. A little forlornly, Flaminius said, ‘Is there anything that needs doing?’

  Centurion Junius Italicus shook his head. ‘We didn’t know you’d be back so soon. The prefect had me take on all your duties. Everything that needs to be done is done.’

  Flaminius fretted with a stylus on the desk, while Centurion Junius Italicus sharpened his sword, whistling to himself. Flaminius rose abruptly.

  ‘I think I’ll just… check the patrols,’ he said.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus, not looking up. Flaminius strode towards the door. ‘I believe that the handmaiden Medea is in her quarters in the Flavian House.’

  Flaminius paused in the doorway and stared suspiciously at Centurion Junius Italicus. Now, how could the centurion know that was his real intention? He was about to ask, then thought better of it, and strode out into the marble corridor.

  The passageways of the palace were cool and hushed, except for occasional patrols of toga-clad Praetorians or chamberlains and slaves scurrying about their business. He found the handmaidens’ quarters in the opulent Flavian House, which stood adjacent to the House of Augustus. He tapped lightly on the studded door. A dark skinned girl opened it, and a cloud of scent wafted into the corridor. He asked for Medea.

  The Greek girl appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Are you busy?’ Flaminius asked. He saw the dark girl watching from further inside. ‘If you’re not doing anything, I was wondering if you’d like to take a turn around the outer peristyle garden.’

  He heard the dark girl giggling to herself. Other titters came from elsewhere within the perfumed chamber. He got a confused impression of drapes and hangings and more perfume.

  Medea nodded, and slipped outside, closing the door behind her. ‘I was wondering what had happened to you.’

  Flaminius led her down the passage. ‘I was with Probus,’ he said. ‘We went to speak with Rufinus Crassus’ widow in Praeneste. She…’