‘You might have killed him hours ago,’ said the second gladiator perceptively. ‘No one’s seen him this morning.’
‘Killed him hours ago,’ chipped in a third, ‘and then returned to the scene of the crime. Where you were caught red handed.’
‘There’s no blood on my hands,’ Flaminius pointed out wearily. ‘Look, there’s an easy explanation for this.’ He slipped his hand into his tunic.
The gladiators produced swords. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ the Gaul barked.
‘He’s got a concealed weapon,’ another shouted.
Flaminius sighed. ‘That dagger is the only weapon I have on me,’ he said. ‘Look here, if you don’t trust me, put your hand in my tunic. You’ll find a brooch in there. It’ll tell you all you need to know.’
‘A talking trinket?’ muttered the slave. ‘This man must be a wizard! An Egyptian wizard!’
‘Jove Almighty!’ Flaminius exploded. ‘Do what I tell you! Now!’
The Gaulish gladiator slipped his hand inside Flaminius’ tunic and took out the lancehead brooch. He stared at it in puzzlement. Everyone in the office crowded round, except the slave, who tried to hide in the corner.
‘It’s not saying anything,’ said one of the gladiators disappointedly after a few seconds.
Flaminius sighed. ‘It doesn’t need to,’ he said. ‘It’s not a magic talisman, you fool. It’s my insignia. I’m an imperial agent.’
‘An imperial agent?’ said the Gaulish gladiator, scowling again. ‘What’s one of them? Are you with the civic guard? Or do you work for the emperor? Alexandrian citizens have some rights, you know.’
‘And does that mean you can go around murdering people?’ asked his colleague. ‘I don’t think so! We should haul you up before the magistrate and see what he thinks.’
Flaminius struck the Gaulish gladiator under the chin—he’d never liked barracks room lawyers—kicked the second in the groin, evaded the lunges of the others, and leapt up onto the table, vaulting over Apuleius Victor’s corpse, then flung himself at the window, expecting to go crashing through it in a shower of glass and lead.
A crack appeared in one pane but otherwise it remained unbroken and he fell to the floor, winded. Grasping at his chest, gasping for breath, he got up to find himself surrounded by gladiators. One was rubbing his chin painfully. Another was clutching at his groin. None of them seemed happy.
‘I’ll go and call the civic guard,’ the slave ventured.
‘You do that,’ wheezed the gladiator Flaminius had kicked in the groin. ‘We’ll keep him here.’
Flaminius stood there facing the angry gladiators, like a mouse facing down by a pride of lions. Nobody spoke. Two men picked up Apuleius Victor’s body from the floor and laid it out on his desk. Flaminius had visions of the man, a stylus-pusher for all that he had been a gladiator in his young days, being cremated on top of the desk at which he had, in life, tackled such massive amounts of paperwork. He suppressed a fit of the giggles.
Hobnailed boots tramped down the passageway, many of them. The door crashed open. In stomped several civic guards. They took up positions round the little office, shoving gladiators out of the way in the process, and if there was ever anyone who could shove gladiators out of the way it was these civic guards, who could have shoved Hercules himself.
In strode Gabinius Camillus.
‘Thank you, citizens,’ said the commander of the civic guard, flattering the gladiators, free and unfree, with the honorific. ‘We’ve been hunting this criminal throughout the city. Seems he’s been on a killing spree. He murdered a Praetorian guard in the waystation last night.’
‘He says he’s an imperial agent,’ growled the first gladiator. ‘Whatever that is! Does that mean he’s above the law?’
Gabinius Camillus gave a wry smile. ‘Sometimes, citizen,’ he confided. ‘Killing a washed-up gladiator impresario might have been winked at by the prefect, if Apuleius Victor hadn’t been working for the civic guard. But cold bloodedly murdering a man of the emperor’s personal bodyguard is wholly unacceptable. Besides, we have reason to believe—intelligence provided by the surviving Praetorian—that this man has been plotting to assassinate the emperor himself.’ As the gladiators gave Flaminius disapproving glares, Gabinius Camillus clicked his fingers at the civic guards. ‘Take him away.’
Flaminius was shackled, his hands chained behind his back, and hustled down the passage out into the bright white light of noon. He was in trouble. It hardly needed to be reiterated, but not only was he in trouble, but so was the emperor. And so was the empire.
He was beginning to wonder if the two Praetorians who had appeared so mysteriously in Alexandria had truly been the imperial representatives they claimed. They had spied on him, tried to abduct him, and now the surviving Praetorian was accusing him, of all people, of plotting against the emperor. Someone had decoded their signals with the wrong cipher.
He was marched towards the high white walls of the amphitheatre. The gladiators accompanied the civic guards, and the slave scampered breathlessly alongside Gabinius Camillus at their rear.
‘You really are making a serious mistake,’ Flaminius told his captors. ‘I’m the only man who can save the empire.’
‘A likely story, chum,’ muttered one of the guards. ‘Any more out of you and….’ Wisely, he left the rest unsaid.
They reached the doors to the flight of steps that led to the imperial box. Gabinius Camillus produced a key and opened them. He turned to the gladiators and the slave who had come with them.
‘Your loyal service to the prefect will not go unnoticed,’ he assured them. ‘Return to your school. It will not be long before your time comes to appear in the arena, and I would not wish to hinder your preparations. Rest assured that in the meantime this killer will be facing the prefect’s justice. Hail and farewell.’ He saluted them formally.
The gladiators and their slave drew back and made their way in muttering ones and twos back to the school. At an order from the commander, the civic guards hustled Flaminius up the cold, dank steps. Again they came out into the bright light of the imperial box.
Haterius Nepos lounged in exactly the same spot as last time, clustered round by catamites and concubines, eating and drinking greedily as two crocodiles chased a convicted criminal round a hastily set up pool in the middle of the arena. The prefect looked up as Gabinius Camillus marched in at the head of his men.
‘What is the meaning of this intrusion, commander?’ Haterius Nepos barked. ‘Can’t you see your prefect is in the middle of important civic work?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Gabinius Camillus soothingly. ‘But I must report that we have captured the killer of the Praetorian guard whose arrest you so eagerly anticipated.’
A man stormed forwards. Flaminius recognised him as the other Praetorian. ‘You’ve caught him, that murderer? Yield your prisoner to my authority at once, commander.’
Haterius Nepos rose from amongst his attendants and waddled up the steps.
‘Enough of that,’ he barked. ‘You may well be a Praetorian, but Haterius Nepos is prefect of Egypt. He gives the orders in his own province!’
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’m an imperial agent! I…!’
‘You think your status gives you the right to kill willy-nilly?’ the prefect demanded. ‘The emperor is first among equals, not the ringleader of a gang of criminals. You murdered Rutilio Victorinus! And now his colleague, Lucius Crassus Piso, asserts that you are the very man suspected of plotting the assassination of the emperor! So much for imperial agents!’ He spat dramatically on the stone steps.
Crassus Piso rounded on him. ‘You must yield your prisoner to me, prefect,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall wring the truth from his treacherous lips.’
The prefect gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Unnecessary. Recline and enjoy the show. The civic guard has everything they need to ensure that they get to the truth. If this imperial traitor has accomplices, they will l
earn who they are and hunt them down. You need not concern yourself.’
‘Prefect,’ the Praetorian said forebodingly, ‘I am the emperor’s representative.’
‘As is Haterius Nepos,’ the prefect said. ‘And Egypt is his province. You will accept his superior authority.’
Crassus Piso seethed. ‘Your attitude has been noted,’ he muttered, ‘and it will be reported to his imperial majesty.’
Haterius Nepos was undeterred. His authority had been flouted and he was determined to reassert it. He turned to Gabinius Camillus. ‘Take this prisoner to the Palace of Hadrian. There you have full authority to use any methods at your disposal you deem necessary to encourage him to assist you in your…investigations.’
Gabinius Camillus saluted. He gestured to the civic guards and they hustled Flaminius from the imperial box. Scowling, Crassus Piso followed them down the stairs.
—10—
As the civic guards dragged Flaminius out into the light of day, the Praetorian addressed them.
‘Let me escort this murderer to prison.’
Gabinius Camillus looked down his nose. ‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary.’
‘I insist,’ said Crassus Piso, and he looked like he meant it.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Flaminius, ‘don’t fight over me. You can both escort me!’
‘In the name of the emperor,’ Crassus Piso rumbled, ‘I demand that you yield your prisoner to me. I wish to interrogate him. Not only is he the killer of my comrade, I have reason to believe he has been plotting against the life of his imperial majesty. I must question him alone; he may have sensitive information, for my ears only.’
The Praetorian’s invocation of Hadrian impressed Gabinius Camillus, but he refused to back down. ‘You do not have the resources to question this prisoner. In the Palace of Hadrian we have all the necessary wherewithal to loosen his tongue. I suggest you take the prisoner there...’
‘Very well,’ began Crassus Piso.
‘…and I will provide you with one of my men to escort you to the Palace,’ Gabinius Camillus added.
Crassus Piso gave a deep sigh. ‘Very well.’ He saluted left-handedly and together with one civic guard marched Flaminius away.
The guard was a capable looking man in his mid-thirties, but he seemed awed by his Praetorian companion. Flaminius’ hands had been bound and it was the civic guard who led him up the suburban street, while Crassus Piso took up the rear.
‘Been looking for this scum long, sir?’ the civic guard asked.
Technically there was no need for the civic guard to honour a rank and file Praetorian with such a title, nor was there any precedent for referring to a tribune, even one accused of murder and conspiracy, in such a manner. But Flaminius didn’t think he was in any position to stand on ceremony.
‘Word of his machinations came to us out in Greece,’ said Crassus Piso. ‘The emperor sent my late colleague and myself to find him and bring him back dead or alive. He got Victorinus first. But now he’s in my custody, we can question him for what he knows, find the root of the conspiracy and rip it out.’
‘You don’t think he was working alone?’ asked the civic guard as they walked down another street, leading past several temples and villas.
‘Not according to our informants,’ said Crassus Piso, ‘but he was the man who was tasked with murdering the emperor.’
‘I was in the Praetorians once,’ Flaminius said suddenly.
They turned to look at him. Crassus Piso looked surprised. ‘I suppose you were thrown out for some misdemeanours,’ he blustered. ‘No doubt that’s why you’re plotting against the emperor. He holds a grudge,’ he told the civic guard. ‘That’s the worst sort. When a Praetorian goes to the bad…’ He shuddered dramatically.
‘Which cohort are you with, then, Crassus?’ Flaminius asked.
Crassus Piso halted and glowered at the captive.
‘Prisoner will speak when spoken to!’ barked the civic guard. He hauled on Flaminius’ bound wrists and urged him onwards.
‘Quite right,’ said Crassus Piso as they marched. ‘Don’t let these murderers give you lip. We’ll soon stop his comments and his questions. He’ll be answering questions soon enough, not asking them.’
The walls of the city gleamed whitely in the distance, but the suburbs resembled a sea of temples and villas and Flaminius was a Ulysses adrift upon the waters. At the mercy of fate.
If he had not killed that Praetorian, all would have turned out differently. But now that he stood accused not just of killing Victorinus, but also of plotting against the emperor’s life, the real plotters would be able to continue their machinations unhindered. The one edge he had on them was the fact that only he and the prefect knew when the emperor would be visiting the province. But Arctos had a rebel army scattered about the province, and the defeat of his men at the Delta encampment had done little to lessen the threat they posed. If only Flaminius could get a message to the emperor, tell him on no account to visit Egypt... But how could he dream of contacting Hadrian now that he was accused of being the arch conspirator?
‘We’ll go this way.’
Crassus Piso had halted. Flaminius and the civic guard stopped to look at him. The Praetorian was indicating a noisome looking alleyway that led off the main street.
‘This way, sir?’ said the civic guard dubiously. ‘The street leads to the Canopic Way, and from there it’s just a short walk to the Palace.’
Crassus Piso shook his head. ‘This is a shortcut, comrade,’ he said. ‘We want to get the prisoner back as soon as possible. The sooner we get the information out of him, the sooner we can do everything in our powers to ensure the emperor’s safety. Don’t you want that?’
‘Of course I do, sir,’ said the civic guard, ‘it’s just that… I know this city. You’ve only just come here. I’m afraid you’re mistaken if you think that this is a shortcut.’
‘Obey orders!’ Crassus Piso barked. ‘We’ve going this way. Now jump to it! That’s an order!’
The civic guard saluted. ‘Under protest, sir,’ he said.
Halfway down, the alley opened out slightly. ‘We’ll stop here,’ said the Praetorian.
‘What’s that, sir?’ the civic guard asked, turning to look at Crassus Piso.
Flaminius heard a sword being drawn. A blade flashed through the air beside his ear and he instinctively flung himself to one side. Overbalancing, hands still bound, he fell with a thud to the dusty ground.
But the Praetorian wasn’t trying to kill him. Clutching at the fresh wound in his side, the civic guard staggered back, face pale with shock as he stared at his attacker.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘Sir?’
The Praetorian stepped over Flaminius and lunged again. This time the civic guard dodged. Blood oozed down his side, his face was ashen, but he was still on his feet—more than could be said for Flaminius. When the Praetorian made another attack, the civic guard drew his own sword and met the lunge with an expertly executed parry.
‘I don’t know what’s got into you, sir,’ he panted. ‘But I must defend myself and ensure that the prisoner is taken to the Palace…’
‘Don’t count on it,’ the Praetorian said, his voice growing coarser as he forced the civic guard back in a flurry of blows. Up until now he had spoken in that pure Latin of Latium affected by all Praetorians. Flaminius blushed to remember speaking like that during his brief time in the Guards. In his defence, he had been undercover…[5] As the two men fought, although the binding of his hands hampered him, he tried to wriggle away back down the dusty alleyway.
‘Enough of that!’ The Praetorian had seen the movement and he turned to brandish his sword threateningly. As he did, the civic guard lunged, and his blade skittered off the Praetorian’s cuirass then ploughed into his throat.
The Praetorian swung round and aimed a cut at the civic guard. It sliced through the flesh of the man’s arm and sank into the bone; it must have cut an artery too, because s
uddenly the dusty alleyway was wet with a fine mist of blood. The civic guard’s corpse fell to the dust.
Even as it did, Crassus Piso slipped in a pool of blood and fell with a crash beside Flaminius, hit his head on the cobbles, rolled over, and was still.
Flaminius sat up.
The coppery, animal stink of blood hung in the air. Flies buzzed greedily as they gathered in clouds. Flaminius sat there trying to understand what had happened. A shadow fell across his face and he looked up to see what looked like a vulture circling high up above the suburban roofs. Soon there would be more. It was time he was going.
As he untied the bonds on his wrists, he peered down at the Praetorian’s face. His eyes narrowed. The man groaned and stirred. Flaminius turned and hurried from the alley.
In a side street bathhouse he surreptitiously swapped his own stained tunic for that of another bather much his size, after ridding his limbs of any blood stains. The bathhouse porter gave him an odd look as he left but said nothing. Refreshed and reinvigorated, he came out at last on the bustling quay a short way from the Library. He trotted up the steps and entered its musty silence.
To his relief, Ozymandias was on duty at the main desk. Flaminius gave him the code word, the Egyptian asked a colleague to cover him, and then followed Flaminius into the cover of one of the stacks.
‘We can’t keep meeting like this,’ the Egyptian began.
‘Never mind the banter,’ Flaminius said, deadly serious. ‘Remember those Praetorians when we went to the City of the Dead? Well, one of them has joined their number—and the other wasn’t looking too healthy when I last saw him.’
‘Who killed him?’ Ozymandias hissed, eyes wide.
‘I did,’ said Flaminius.
When the assistant librarian took a step backwards, he added, ‘There were mitigating factors. It was chiefly because he attacked me. But now the Praetorians and that fool Haterius Nepos have got into their tiny minds that I’m the one who’s plotting to assassinate the emperor.’ He coughed. ‘I’m, er, on the run.’
The Archimedes Stratagem Page 8