He would have to make his report to the legate but at that hour it had been too late to be bothering Avidius Pollio. He had a different report to make that evening.
He had sent a letter from Ammonium to Ozymandias but it had been very formal. He had been unable to put his feelings into words. All he had managed to say was that he would be returning before the end of winter. He still had to explain what had happened. But it would be better if they heard it from his own lips.
And so he went to the house of Ozymandias. The porter let him in, looking him up and down censoriously—he was still travel stained from his desert wanderings. Holding up a lamp, the man set off to inform the master and the mistress.
Shortly afterwards, he was shown through into the atrium where Ozymandias and Nitocris played at being real Romans. Both lay a little stiffly on couches, wine cups in their hands, food on a table between them. Ozymandias rose to greet him.
‘Flaminius,’ he said. ‘It’s very late. Have you returned from your journey?’
‘Where is Amasis?’ asked Nitocris.
Flaminius looked sadly at her. She was just as beautiful as the first time he had seen her, though she was a woman now, a girl no longer.
‘May I have some wine?’ he asked awkwardly. It occurred to him that he had sworn a vow by the infernal gods never to go near her again.
‘Of course,’ she said, clapping her hands. A slave brought Flaminius an amphora and poured him a cup. He sat down without being invited, on the edge of an ornamental pond.
Ozymandias was staring at him, trepidation clear on his face. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked at last. ‘Wasn’t it a success?’
‘Where is Amasis?’ Nitocris’ voice was tremulous now. No longer was she the lady of the house, she was the frightened young girl Flaminius remembered.
‘He didn’t come back,’ Flaminius said after watching a fish swim from the cover of one lily pad to another. ‘I’m afraid Amasis is dead.’
Nitocris shrieked and ran inside.
Ozymandias sighed and looked away. ‘This is going to be difficult to explain to my cousin,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘What happened? Have you brought his body back for embalming?’
‘It’s hundreds of miles from here to Phazania,’ Flaminius told him. ‘And I left a little precipitously…’
‘I can imagine,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Nitocris won’t forgive you for this. We both know the kind of life you lead. What you do. You’ve dragged us into it enough times.’
Flaminius gestured at the opulent surroundings. ‘You would be still in the gutter if it wasn’t for me,’ he reminded the Egyptian angrily. He relented. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think things would go as badly as they did. I wouldn’t have agreed to bring him along with me if I thought it was going to be so dangerous.’
‘Danger follows you wherever you go,’ said Ozymandias grimly. ‘Or maybe you bring it with you. How did it happen?’
Flaminius gave a brief account of the journey. Ozymandias listened absently.
‘Wasn’t there anything you could do to avoid his death?’ he said. ‘And then you ended up working for this man who betrayed you all! Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis? I’ve heard of him. He has a bad name in Alexandria. So did Claudius Mercator…’
Flaminius knocked back his wine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m tired. I’ve just got back. I’ll have to go.’
And with that he left, took himself a room in the seedy Egyptian Quarter, and spent the rest of the night drinking alone. Now, sitting in Avidius Pollio’s sunlit office, he was regretting the decision.
‘This is very interesting,’ the legate remarked. He looked up. ‘A shame you couldn’t keep the woman calling herself Dido in your custody. Just walked off into the desert you say? The effect you have on women! It’s about time you got yourself a full time mistress.’
Flaminius stroked the plume of his helmet. He had taken the opportunity to change into dress uniform before marching into the legate’s office, but it felt strange to be wearing such clobber after months in civilian dress.
‘It’s not like you, tribune, to allow a prisoner to escape,’ the legate added reprovingly. ‘She could have provided useful information regarding the rebels in Carthage.’ He leafed through the report again. ‘You must admit, this isn’t very substantial. As far as intelligence on the rebels is concerned, I mean.’
‘Sir,’ said Flaminius.
‘But a very thorough account of these barbarian tribes,’ Avidius Pollio added generously. ‘The fullest account we have in the files is a copy of Flaccus’ punitive expedition about seventy five years ago. Not much more up to date than Cornelius Balbus’ own report. It would appear that things have changed greatly in Garamantian territory.’
He looked up. ‘But now Rhampsinitus of Heliopolis has taken on the mantle of Claudius Mercator, I suppose we will have closer links with the Garamantian people. Still, imperial policy today is tending towards consolidation and demarcation. Lines in the sand, tribune, that’s what the empire is about these days, not military adventures. It would take a real braggart to repeat the Balbus expedition. Look at Britain! Never properly settled, a constant problem, a running sore, neither in nor out of the empire. At least the emperor has come up with a compromise solution. It might even work. And no doubt he’ll deal with these southern borders in much the same manner...’
‘The whole mission was based on a lie,’ said Flaminius.
Avidius Pollio sat back and regarded him in silence. He picked up the report again and scanned through it.
‘The Zaïmph was destroyed by fire from heaven, according to the best accounts, during the mercenaries’ revolt,’ he said off-handedly. ‘And Scipio performed the evocation of Tanit that brought the goddess to Rome, where we offer sacrifice to her as Celestial Juno. She is on our side these days, has been for centuries. Those rumours that the late Claudius Mercator was spreading were nonsense, anyone who’d had a decent education could see that. But we had to be certain. Besides, what if the rebels faked something? It’s possible that they still will! If you hadn’t let their agent escape…she might get back to them and make her own report.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Flaminius dismissively. ‘Are you saying, sir, that you knew all along that Claudius Mercator was lying?’
Avidius Pollio looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Not as such. I wouldn’t say I knew. But it seemed a definite likelihood. Well, no harm done finding out, is there?’
‘The entire caravan was wiped out,’ Flaminius said. ‘Except for me.’
‘Dangerous business, going into barbarian territory,’ Avidius Pollio told him. ‘This is why his imperial majesty is so keen to curb any adventuring beyond the borders. Even with several legions, things can turn nasty. Surely a survivor of the Ninth Legion can understand that. Why these merchants go to such lengths, and all in search of filthy lucre…!’
The legate stared out of the window. ‘Demetrius of Oxyrhynchus will be missed, of course, in his own scholarly circle. The Museum will have to be informed. But I’m sure they will be grateful for whatever geographical data you can provide. Subject to vetting by myself, of course.’
‘I’ll get in touch.’ Surely an intelligence officer could be trusted to know what was and wasn’t a security issue, Flaminius thought. Avidius Pollio went back to reading through the report.
The legate did not seemed impressed by what Flaminius had achieved out in the desert. Hadn’t it all been a waste of time, not to mention a waste of life? He very much doubted that Dido ever got back to her fellow rebels. The desert had been perilous enough in company. Walking off on her own like that had been suicide, as sure as if she had fallen on her own sword in front of him. Then again, he had thought her dead before.
He remembered how she had clung to him during the sandstorm. How frenzied their lovemaking had been, in the face of certain death... That incident hadn’t got into the report, of course. Avidius Pollio did not require that level of detail.
�
�If there’s nothing more, legate…’ he said.
Avidius Pollio looked up from the report in surprise. ‘You can wait until you’re dismissed, tribune,’ he said mildly. ‘You may be an imperial agent, but I am your legate. Please try to remember that.’ When Flaminius looked back stonily at him, he relented. ‘Very well, I’ll contact you if there is anything else I want to speak to you about. You’ll want to settle back into your rooms, I suppose, and read up on the reports of your agents. Oh yes, and a message came from you, from Rome.’ The legate looked disapproving as he produced a papyrus scroll. The seal was broken, Flaminius noted as he received it. ‘Appears to be written in code,’ the legate added, with more disapproval. ‘I believe it’s from the Commissary.’
Excited, Flaminius opened it. It was indeed written in code, a variation on the Caesar cipher known only to himself and Chief Centurion Probus’ immediate staff.
His heart pounded. What did the old man want with him? This was the first communication he had received since he was sent to this province. His eyes flashed across the coded message. It was curt and to the point, certainly the work of the chief centurion himself.
When he finished it, he had to read it through twice more before he was certain he had deciphered it correctly.
When he had reassured himself that he had not misread the message, he lowered it and saluted the legate smartly. Avidius Pollio looked up from the report again, eyebrows raised expectantly.
‘Yes, tribune? Was there anything else?’
‘Sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘When did this message arrive?’
‘Just after Saturnalia, as I remember,’ said the legate, after a quick discussion with his scribe. ‘The same time we received news that the emperor had ended his wanderings of the empire and was returning to Rome. They say he’s intending to close the Gates of Peace in the temple of Janus, marking an end to all hostilities in and around the empire. Spending so long out in the barbarian wilderness, you’ll not be up to speed on these recent developments. Why do you ask?’
Flaminius glanced at the message again.
‘Curious,’ he said. He brandished the scroll. ‘This message, which your staff saw fit to open,’ he went on, with a bitter look at the scribe sitting quietly at his own desk, ‘is from the Chief. Chief Centurion Probus in the Peregrine Camp in Rome.’ He scanned it again. ‘It demands that I report myself to him at once. Extremely urgent, it says. My replacement will be despatched forthwith.’
He looked up. ‘I’m being recalled to Rome.’
The story continues in The Londinium File (2019)
* * *
[1] Better known today as red carnelian.
[2] See ‘Murder in Hadrian’s Villa.’
[3] See The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit.
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