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 sigh
t 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.
The Londinium File Page 3