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 i
t’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 d
arkly. ‘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.’
The Londinium File Page 7