Murder in Hadrian's Villa

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘You think Chief Centurion Messalus will lead us to the heart of the conspiracy?’ Flaminius interrupted. ‘You think he knows who is behind it?’

  ‘He’s too small a fish to lead us straight to the big shark,’ Probus said, ‘but maybe we could net ourselves a few fish bigger than him. From there we work our way upwards. He’s your First Spear, tribune. Maybe you could loosen his tongue. Invite him into the mess, ply him with drink.’

  Flaminius frowned thoughtfully. ‘We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Messalus and me,’ he mused. ‘He doesn’t like me, or I’m no judge. I could say that I was hoping to mend matters between us.’

  Probus grinned. ‘It might work. You’re in a better position to do this than me. But please, tribune—don’t make a mess of this.’

  Flaminius returned to his cohort barracks just in time to learn that the empress had sent a message; she was returning to the Villa for the night.

  ‘Good thing you returned when you did,’ Chief Centurion Messalus observed coldly. ‘You’d have been in trouble if you were absent when the empress wanted you.’

  ‘Get the men ready,’ Flaminius told him curtly.

  ‘Sir,’ said Chief Centurion Messalus, but he didn’t stir.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sir, I have already done that.’ He was staring directly forward, not making eye contact.

  Flaminius sighed. ‘Very efficient, centurion.’

  Then he laughed jovially. ‘Centurion, we got off on the wrong foot. We don’t have to be enemies. It’ll be bad for morale if things continue as they have done.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Centurion,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’d like you to join me in the mess when we get back to the Villa. Drinks on me.’

  Messalus’ eyes swivelled his way. After a seeming eternity, his lips twitched. ‘Very good, sir.’

  The journey back to the Villa began as soon as the empress was fully ready. As a result, it was the second watch of the night[3] before the Praetorians returned to barracks. Even Septicius Clarus seemed ready for bed. Flaminius, finally off duty, nodded to Chief Centurion Messalus.

  ‘Time for that drink, eh, centurion?’

  Septicius Clarus overheard him. ‘I’ll join you,’ he said, ‘in a moment. I’ve got to speak with the empress first, but I think we all deserve a drink tonight.’

  He marched off towards the palace. Flaminius cursed him silently. He didn’t want anyone else around when he was talking to Messalus. This would have to be done speedily.

  ‘Come along, centurion,’ he said. ‘Quick step!’

  Shortly afterwards, they were both sitting in the officers’ mess, drinking wine. A statue of the emperor stood in one corner of the room, dominating the proceedings, and in its shadow Chief Centurion Messalus still seemed reserved. Flaminius despaired that he would be able to thaw him before the Prefect deigned to join them.

  ‘How did you wind up in this cohort?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean, sir,’ Messalus said, emptying his beaker. He looked expectantly at Flaminius who signalled to the long suffering barman.

  ‘Nobody is accepted into the Praetorian Guard unless they’re exceptional in some way,’ Flaminius said as the barman poured another drink. ‘What did you do?’

  Messalus shrugged. He accepted the second beaker and looked disapprovingly at Flaminius until he had made serious inroads into his own drink. When Flaminius was in the midst of draining it, Messalus looked at him levelly.

  ‘I kill people.’

  Flaminius spluttered, almost choking on the rough wine. He shrugged. ‘We all do, don’t we? That’s our job.’

  ‘I’m very good at it,’ Messalus replied. ‘My best attribute. Killing people.’ He sighed. ‘I wish it wasn’t. I’d like to do something more useful. My father was a smith, but I was no good with my hands. Not for delicate work. So I joined the legions and put my hands to different use. I’ve killed more men—aye, and women and children—than I can count.’

  He stared into his drink. Flaminius tried to conceal his rising excitement mingled with horror. Probus was right. Messalus was that same Praetorian centurion and assassin who had murdered Senator Nigrinus. And not only Nigrinus, by the sound of it!

  Messalus nodded to the barman, who brought him another drink. The centurion drank it steadily. ‘I’ve served two emperors to the best of my ability,’ he went on. ‘I’ve killed without question, whenever it was needed. And what recognition have I received? Promotion to the Praetorians, yes. But no one calls me a hero. Of course, I’m not a pretty boy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Flaminius. So that was it. Simple jealousy. Not that he’d ever have called himself a pretty boy… He shrugged. ‘I was in the right place at the right time, that was all.’

  Chief Centurion Messalus scowled at him as if this was an admission of iniquity.

  ‘Your deeds can be shouted from the rooftops,’ he said, ‘but mine must be carried out by night, and they’re always hushed up afterwards. I killed that senator at the Prefect’s orders, and it just became an embarrassment to the emperor.’

  ‘Senator?’ Flaminius was surprised to find his voice a croak.

  ‘Nigrinus, he was called,’ Chief Centurion Messalus replied. ‘He conspired against the emperor. I surprised him in his garden at night and broke his neck. He wasn’t the first. I told you I’ve slaughtered more than I can count. But he was the only senator I’d killed. That is…’

  ‘Yes?’ Flaminius said.

  ‘Until I k…’

  ‘Chief Centurion Messalus!’

  Flaminius jumped. He turned to see Septicius Clarus looming over them.

  ‘Centurion, you’re drunk!’ the Prefect barked. ‘Go to your quarters! And make a trip to the bathhouse. You’re filthy after the ride here.’ He wrinkled his nostrils.

  Messalus lurched off the stool and stood to attention. He saluted. ‘Sir!’ he bellowed.

  Was that gratitude in his eye? Flaminius watched closely as the centurion marched from the mess.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing, tribune?’ Septicius Clarus said, sitting down awkwardly at the bar. ‘It’s all very well inviting centurions into the mess, good for morale as long as it doesn’t become a habit. But as for getting a good man disgustingly drunk!’ He rose. ‘Dismissed, tribune. Like the centurion, you are dismissed. I’ll deal with both of you later.’

  He strode away.

  —4—

  Entering his office, Flaminius sat down and worried. If only the Prefect hadn’t chosen that moment to interrupt, this mystery might be approaching something like a solution. Messalus had obviously been about to confess. He’d already confessed to being the assassin of Senator Nigrinus, but that was ancient history. What mattered was Rufinus Crassus’ death, and its implications. If only Flaminius had been able to get the confession from the centurion’s lips…

  Messalus had confessed to being a murderer. That was a fact. Probus had already pointed out that he had been first on the scene of Rufinus Crassus’ death. But the murder Messalus had confessed to had been strangling, not poisoning. Erichtho had not been able to confirm that the senator had been poisoned, but surely strangling would leave its mark. Had Flaminius’ trip to Erichtho’s pharmacy had been wasted? He looked round for the love philtre, and felt a little surprised when he couldn’t see it anywhere. His eyes fell on a small writing tablet in the middle of the table. It wasn’t his, and it hadn’t been there before.

  Maybe it was a confidential report from one of his men, although why they hadn’t seen fit to hand it straight to him…

  He picked it up, flipped it open, and read:

  Meet me in the disused amphitheatre at the beginning of the third watch of the night. No one goes there. I must talk to you. Medea.

  His pulse raced. Medea had learnt something! Something that she felt she had to confide in private. What was wrong with meeting at the laurel tree where they had had their previous assignations? Was someone on
to them? It must be important, whatever she wanted to talk about. Surely it was connected with the murder.

  At least it was a reason to get out of the barracks and go somewhere Septicius Clarus wouldn’t think to look. It couldn’t be far off the third watch of the night. Flaminius thought it would be a good idea if he took a late evening stroll in that general direction.

  It looked like she had forgiven him after the way he had been forced to treat her in Britain[4]. As he crossed the gardens, the wind murmured among the bushes and the moon sailed high above the eastern hills.

  Two Praetorians were on patrol. Recognising their tribune, they saluted him and gave the password, ‘Vigilance!’

  ‘Carry on, men,’ he told them with a gruff smile.

  The small amphitheatre was built into the side of the hill, and a marble walkway led through pine trees to the top of the wall. He followed this.

  The amphitheatre was like a smaller version of the Colosseum in Rome. It seemed that the empress had no interest in beast fights and gladiatorial games, and the place was currently out of use. Certainly it made an ideal location for a clandestine meeting—or a lover’s tryst. Flaminius’ pulse quickened. The moonlight glimmered on the marble as he approached. The Villa was a place of many secrets, he mused, remembering the underworld labyrinth of tunnels through which he had journeyed on his way to rescue the emperor from the assassin.

  Looking down into the amphitheatre he saw that it also seemed to be deserted. The curving rows of stone benches sloped down towards the arena but there was no audience. The place was eerie and silent except for a distant susurrus of wind that stirred the cold sand into little dust devils.

  Where was Medea?

  Flaminius hurried down the steps between the seats, imagining what this place would be like when Hadrian had visitors to entertain; packed with senators and equestrians, intent on the duels to the death on the sand below. Now it lay bleak and empty, like Baiae[5] at Saturnalia.

  ‘Medea?’ he called out in a low voice. The place was deserted. What was she playing at?

  He heard movement from below, somewhere in the gloom of the arena. Seizing the top of the wall that ran round the top of the arena, he leaned over, and hissed, ‘Medea? Is that you?’

  An indistinct shape vanished into a dark, cave-like opening in the opposite wall.

  Sweating despite the cool night air, Flaminius remained still, gripped by indecision. Who could it be other than Medea? But if it was here, why hadn’t she answered him? He might be drawing attention to himself. Perhaps that was what she wanted to avoid.

  How could he get down into the arena? There was no obvious way from up here. But he couldn’t waste time looking. He climbed over the side, hung by his hands for a moment, then dropped.

  Hitting the sand with a thud that jarred his spine, he turned quickly and scanned the arena. On the far side was the open gateway into which the pale figure had vanished.

  As he crept across the sand, he heard a grinding and rumbling from up ahead, as of machinery. Poorly oiled machinery. A portcullis thundered open. Behind it yawned another gateway.

  A massive tawny shape padded out into the moonlight. Two sparks of fire blazed in a maned face. Seeing Flaminius just as the moonlight fell upon it, the lion increased its pace, thudding softly across the sand of the arena.

  Flaminius’ bowels turned to water. He was paralysed, unable to move, petrified as if he had looked upon the face of the Gorgon. He wanted to move, to run. The great cat loping towards him could kill him with one bite of its huge jaws. He had seen lions pursuing convicted criminals in the Colosseum often enough to know how it would go. He had to move, to run.

  ‘Gaius!’

  A shrill voice screamed his name. Turning, he saw a female figure standing on the edge of the seating area, looking down at the arena. It was Medea. Then he caught a great waft of lion smell from behind him and heard the paws begin to pad faster. Without making any conscious decision he began to run.

  The padding paws sped up. As he sprinted frantically towards the arena wall, he glanced back. The lion raced after him, sprinting almost playfully at his heels like a housecat in pursuit of a mouse. Medea screamed out again. Now a long rope dangled down from her position at the top of the arena wall. Reaching it, he leapt up to grab it. As he climbed, he realised that from its softness and its scent that it was not a rope but her own cloak.

  The lion roared in frustration. Flaminius looked back to see the dark form gather itself up and leap at him.

  Medea hauled on her cloak and Flaminius scrabbled at the dry stone sides of the arena. The lion’s claws passed his dangling legs by inches. Then the creature thudded to the sand again, and glared up in annoyance. Flaminius flung himself at the lip of the arena wall and began hauling himself up. He felt the air whistle past him as the lion leapt at him a second time.

  At last he rolled over the little wall and lay panting and breathless at the bottom of the seating area, gazing up at Medea. She looked terrified in the moonlight, gripping her bundled up cloak in her hands. The lion could be heard growling and pacing back and forth out of sight.

  She sank to her knees and reached out to him. ‘I couldn’t…I didn’t…’ she said incoherently, and began to weep.

  Flaminius was shaking. He was numb with weariness, drained. But as she knelt beside him, sobbing, he hauled himself into a sitting position and put his arms around her. She was drenched in sweat. He took her cloak from her hands and put it round her shoulders

  She looked up, her face glistening. ‘Are you alright?’ she said urgently. The lion could still be heard prowling below them, impotent, frustrated. ‘It didn’t get you?’

  ‘No,’ Flaminius said. He didn’t trust his legs to support him so he stayed sitting. ‘Thanks to you. You came in the nick of time. What kept you?’

  ‘W-what kept me?’

  ‘You left me that note. I thought you said the beginning of the third watch. Surely this is past the third watch.’

  ‘The note,’ she said. ‘The note?’

  ‘I thought I heard you moving about down there. You didn’t answer, so I followed you down into the arena, thinking you wanted us to keep quiet. But it couldn’t have been you. Next thing I knew, that thing was after me.’

  She shuddered and held him close.

  Even in his ecstasy of panic, it seemed that she was more terrified by the experience than he had been. He wanted to ask her what she had called him here to talk about, but he decided it could keep. That lion had not stopped pacing up and down. How it had got free was a question for a later date. He really ought to get Medea back to safety. Medea and himself.

  Someone had just tried to kill him.

  With an effort of will, he got to his feet, leaning on Medea, who was still shuddering. Together, they left the amphitheatre and made their way through the moonlit gardens and colonnades of the Villa in silence. Flaminius decided to take her back to the barracks where he was sure they would both be safe.

  When he reached the doors to the barracks, the two scared looking guards on sentry duty stared at him and at the handmaiden at his side. Automatically, they saluted him and gave the password.

  ‘Sir,’ one guard added excitedly. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you. There’s been a murder. Someone’s poisoned Chief Centurion Messalus.’

  —5—

  ‘What?’ Flaminius demanded, incredulous, clinging to the doorjamb for support. This was too much, just one thing after another, almost as bad as being back in Britain.

  ‘The Prefect,’ added the other guard, ‘said that if we saw you, we were to send you to him directly. He’s in the First Spear’s rooms.’

  Moments later Flaminius and Medea entered the centurion’s quarters, which were was thronged with lantern bearing guards. Septicius Clarus stood beside a bed on which lay a twisted, motionless figure. Flaminius recognised it immediately as the burly Chief Centurion Messalus—his corpse, at least. His face was yellow tinged, his nose sharper than it had been in life,
his mouth hung open. Crouched over, examining the body, was Erichtho of the Marsi.

  Flaminius was surprised to see, also in the room, wearing night attire, the empress and her houseguest, Julius Ursus Servianus.

  ‘Tribune.’ Septicius Clarus greeted him angrily. ‘When the reports of Chief Centurion Messalus’ death reached me at the palace I wondered why the guards had not notified you, but they said you were not to be found.’ His gaze flickered from Flaminius to Medea. Medea looked at her feet. ‘I see you were celebrating the rites of spring with the imperial handmaiden!’

  Erichtho glanced up and shook her head, disgusted.

  ‘What’s that?’ Flaminius said. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Listen to me, someone’s just tried to kill me…’ He trailed off, staring at Messalus’ motionless, lifeless form.

  Septicius Clarus drew closer. He grimaced with disgust. ‘What nonsense. The pair of you stink of sweat,’ he said. ‘No guesses what kept you from your post. Last I saw of you, tribune, you were drinking—with the deceased centurion! Next, you decide to gallivant off into the bushes with this handmaiden! It’s not looking good, tribune. It’s not looking good.’

  ‘Come here, child,’ the empress told Medea, and she went over to her side. ‘Where have you been…?’

  ‘Ma’am …’ Medea began, but the empress drew her into the corner for a quiet scolding.

  ‘In my day,’ Ursus Servianus announced to no one in particular, ‘tribunes remained at their post. We had a sense of duty back then. What the empire is coming to! When I was posted to Britain as a young man…’

  Flaminius felt that he was receiving a distinctly cold reception. ‘Can anyone tell me what has been going on in my absence?’ he asked.

  He wanted to tell them what had happened in the amphitheatre but no one was willing to listen to any drama other than their own tonight. Something told him he was no longer the hero of the hour; possibly he had even been recast as villain of the piece.