Murder in Hadrian's Villa

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘This code isn’t the Caesar cipher, you young fool,’ Probus told him levelly. ‘I’ve tried decoding it with the Caesar cipher, and the Polybius square, and even tried translating it into the skytale, with no success.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve not heard of the Augustus cipher,’ Flaminius said smugly.

  ‘Augustus cipher?’ Probus barked. ‘What’s this? No, I’ve never heard of it! Are you sure there’s such a cipher? You mean this is something the imperial secretary told you about?’

  ‘I read it in his book, yes,’ Flaminius replied. He produced the Augustus scroll from where he had secreted it in the folds of his toga, unrolled it on the table, and read aloud from the relevant passage:

  Whenever he [Augustus] wrote in cipher, he wrote B for A, C for B, and the rest of the letters on the same principle, using AA for X. [12]

  Probus stared at him in silence. Then he banged his fist down on the table, making all the documents and scraps of papyrus jump. ‘So insultingly simple!’ he barked. ‘Simpler than any of the usual permutations of the Caesar cipher. I had dismissed anything so easy out of hand, and gone looking for something more complicated.’ He shook his head. ‘The fools! To use such a basic cipher. And yet… it had me fooled.’

  ‘We haven’t tried it out yet,’ said Flaminius, ‘but I know that graffiti off by heart. I learnt it while waiting for my trial.’

  He grabbed a wax tablet and scribbled the coded message down on it: TFSBQJT DTQRF ZPV DMBSVT.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘if we substitute B for A, C for B, and so on…’

  TFSBQJT D TQRF

  s erapis c urse

  ZPV DMBSVT

  y ouclarus

  He looked up at Probus. ‘Serapis curse you, Clarus.’

  ‘Clarus?’ said Probus. ‘Septicius Clarus!’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Flaminius asked. Probus looked pensive. ‘I’ve got something to tell you about the prefect…’ the tribune added.

  ‘That can wait.’ Probus sat back in his chair. ‘Let us reconstruct the scene. Rufinus Crassus, having been arrested for the attempted murder of the emperor himself, locked up by the Praetorians, scratches into the wall Serapis curse you, Clarus. He invoked the Egyptian god Serapis to curse, not Hadrian, who he had just tried to kill, but Septicius Clarus, who admittedly had had him arrested and imprisoned, but was only obeying orders. There was nothing personal about it. Now why the prefect? Does it have any connection with the fact that Rufinus Crassus was murdered—or persuaded to commit suicide—while in the prefect’s custody, sometime shortly afterwards?’

  ‘I can tell you one thing about Septicius Clarus that might give you pause for thought,’ Flaminius said. ‘From all the indications, he’s having an affair…’ he paused dramatically, ‘with the empress.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Probus demanded. ‘From all the indications, you say. What indications?’

  Flaminius related everything that had happened since their last meeting. Probus’ face remained stonily immobile, but from occasional flashes of his eyes, Flaminius could see the commissary centurion was impressed.

  ‘It makes sense that she should be unfaithful,’ Probus commented at the end. ‘But with a mere slip of a boy like you?’

  Flaminius bristled. ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Surely any woman would want a young fellow like me rather than a passed-it old man like Septicius Clarus!’

  ‘Septicius Clarus,’ said Probus with dignity, ‘is younger than myself.’ He scowled. ‘So… the senator who attempted to murder the emperor cursed the prefect in his last moments, although we don’t know if he realised that they were his dying moments—well, no. Of course he knew he was going to die. What we don’t know is if he realised he would be murdered while still imprisoned. We now think that the prefect is, and presumably was, carrying out an affair with the empress. Now how do these pieces of the mosaic fit together?’

  ‘What about the other documents?’ Flaminius said. ‘The wax tablet we discovered in Messalus’ quarters and the notes you found in the prefect’s office. Now we’ve cracked the code, we can read them, too, surely.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Probus. ‘It will take a while, simply because the text is longer. It’s just a case of a bit of hard work.’

  Flaminius rose. ‘I really ought to be getting back to the camp...’

  ‘Sit down, tribune,’ Probus said firmly. ‘You can help me.’

  With a sigh, Flaminius sat.

  He took one page of the notes, Probus another. Before they had got very far into the laborious process of translating them, Flaminius dropped his stylus and stared into space.

  ‘What is it?’ Probus growled.

  ‘You found some of these in the prefect’s office, while the rest were in Messalus’ room,’ Flaminius said. ‘Rufinus Crassus used this cipher. The prefect and the centurion seem to have used it. You didn’t recognise it, despite being a commissary centurion…’

  ‘Jupiter’s balls, don’t rub it in, lad,’ Probus complained.

  ‘…but who do we know who did know it as well? The imperial secretary and historian Suetonius Tranquillus.’

  ‘You think the secretary is implicated?’

  Flaminius grimaced. ‘Maybe he didn’t administer the poison,’ he said. ‘Though he seems to know a bit about poison himself...’ He mentioned what Erichtho had said about the imperial secretary’s knowledge of cantharadin. Probus’ piggy eyes widened a little. ‘But what interests me more is the fact that Rufinus Crassus scratched that message, that curse, in cipher. A cipher that we now know is used by the prefect and was also used by Centurion Messalus.’

  ‘Seems to be,’ Probus corrected him. ‘That may become clearer when we get our backs into decoding it.’

  Flaminius ignored the hint and went on. ‘So Rufinus Crassus knew the cipher, and he wrote that message knowing that Septicius Clarus would be able to read it. They both knew the cipher! A cipher that, as far as we’re aware, was only known otherwise by Suetonius Tranquillus, presumably due to his reading of Augustus’ letters in the archives…’

  ‘Not wanting to clip the wings of your flight of fancy,’ Probus said, ‘but that’s all it is until we get all this deciphered. So instead of putting it off until the Greek calends, get busy, lad!’

  Before he returned to his work, Flaminius added, ‘Did I mention what Junius Italicus told me? These rumours of manoeuvres tonight?’

  Probus flung down his stylus. ‘Do tell,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The minutiae of Praetorian manoeuvres never ceases to fascinate me.’

  ‘Nothing’s been confirmed, officially,’ Flaminius said. ‘I saw Septicius Clarus before, as I said, and he said nothing…’

  ‘Probably too busy thinking about what he’d do to the empress,’ Probus interrupted.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Flaminius. ‘But my chief centurion heard that the Guard are going to be called out on manoeuvres tonight.’

  ‘You said that before,’ Probus said. ‘But what manoeuvres?’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘He didn’t know himself. It could just be a rumour. You know how soldiers get in peacetime, they need to have their legs stretched for them or they get restless... Thing is, it’s odd that I’ve not been told. I can understand my cohort being left in the dark, but surely the tribunes need to know. Why haven’t I been told?’ He shook his head. ‘It must just be a rumour, thinking about it. Sorry I mentioned it.’

  ‘No, this is interesting,’ said Probus. ‘It seems like information is being deliberately kept from you. You’ve already had two attempts on your life. Now this. Someone is out to get you, tribune. I’d suggest you tread carefully.’ He paused. ‘And yet…’

  ‘Septicius Clarus,’ said Flaminius decisively. ‘It’s Septicius Clarus. Everything’s pointing at him.’ He wondered what the empress would think if he proved that her lover was the murderer of Messalus. ‘Whatever these manoeuvres are, he doesn’t want me involved. What can it be?’

  Probus shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine. But y
ou’re right, it must be something important. He’s onto you, onto both of us quite possibly. That would be why he persuaded the empress—his lover—to have me taken off the case. But what is he up to?’

  He gazed down at the ciphered text.

  ‘Have you found anything in the prefect’s notes yet?’ Flaminius asked.

  Probus shook his head. ‘Nothing very clear. But these manoeuvres—you must be there to witness them.’

  ‘The prefect is keeping me out of them, me and my cohort,’ Flaminius reminded him.

  ‘So you must infiltrate it,’ Probus said. ‘You’ve already infiltrated the Guard.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaminius, ‘with your help. I can’t see how I could infiltrate it a second time. They know me.’

  ‘It will be night,’ said Probus. ‘Go to the camp and monitor the situation. When the manoeuvres begin, disguise yourself as a rank and file Praetorian and join one of the cohorts.’

  ‘And then what?’ Flaminius asked.

  Probus shrugged. ‘Keep your eyes open, and don’t get caught. If we can find out what’s being planned it will be of immense value.’ He returned his attention to the ciphered notes.

  Flaminius read the gibberish on the wax tablet from Messalus’ quarters. He repeated what he had done previously to decipher the graffiti.

  Uif xbhft usbjo mfbwft Qpsuvt, Jeft pg Bqsjm bu ebxo.

  Xf buubdl ju bu oppo po uif Qpsuvt Spbe

  Flaminius dropped the wax tablet in shock.

  ‘Jupiter’s balls! What is it?’ Probus barked.

  ‘The wages train leaves Portus, Ides of April at noon,’ Flaminius read out slowly. ‘We attack it at midnight on the Portus Way.’ He looked up at Probus. ‘What can in the name of all the gods can it mean?’

  —16—

  ‘The ides of April[13],’ said Probus. ‘That’s only two days away. The wages train…’ His face cleared. ‘Of course!’

  ‘What is it?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What wages train?’

  ‘Your wages, tribune,’ Probus said. ‘The wages for the Praetorians. You lot get paid extortionately even in peacetime, even when there hasn’t been a change of emperor.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Flaminius asked.

  ‘It’s customary for new emperors to pay the Guard a substantial bonus,’ Probus explained, ‘to keep them sweet. When the Emperor Galba seized power after Nero’s death, he found the treasury empty, so he couldn’t pay the Guard the promised bonus. That’s why he only lasted a few months. Every emperor needs the Guard on his side. Ask your friend Suetonius Tranquillus.’

  ‘Thanks for the history lesson,’ Flaminius said drily. ‘But what’s this got to do with a wages train?’

  ‘The Guard is paid quarterly in Spanish silver,’ Probus said, ‘like the legions. The silver is mined and minted in Spain, and transported by boat to Portus Trajanorum[14], then brought up the Portus Way in wagons to the Praetorian Camp, where it’s finally paid to the Guards.’ He scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘It looks like someone is plotting to rob it.’

  ‘But we found this in Messalus’ quarters,’ Flaminius said. ‘Why would the Praetorians want to rob their own wages train? It make no sense!’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t, on the face of it,’ Probus said irritably. ‘But it has to be stopped. Even that old fool Cassius Nero will sit up and take notice if there’s a chance the Praetorian wages train is going to be robbed.’

  ‘None of this makes sense,’ said Flaminius. ‘What does this have to do with Rufinus Crassus’ message to Septicius Clarus? Serapis curse you, Clarus. What does that mean?’

  ‘The senator,’ Probus said heavily, ‘spent too long out East and took up with one of their filthy cults. These senators are all the same.’

  ‘But why would he curse Clarus in cipher?’ Flaminius said. ‘Only one conclusion: they both communicated in the same cipher: therefore, they were in collusion. To assassinate the emperor! And yet it was Rufinus Crassus who was assassinated, presumably by Messalus, who was also involved in a plot to rob his own wages train. I don’t see how the two link up.’

  ‘Do they have to?’ Probus said. ‘On the surface, they don’t. Maybe somewhere beneath it, the two currents become one stream.’ His imagery wasn’t improving. Flaminius should point him in the direction of a halfway decent rhetoric teacher. ‘Nevertheless, what matters most is that the wages train gets through. The Praetorians could mutiny if they don’t get paid.’

  ‘I know I will,’ Flaminius said. He paused. ‘Maybe that’s the idea,’ he suggested. ‘Someone wants to provoke a revolt. For… some reason. But what about these mysterious manoeuvres tonight?’

  Probus brooded. ‘You say the prefect hasn’t mentioned them to you? I’d like to know what happens all the same. Well, as I said, you need to make sure you’re involved. In disguise if need be.’ He scratched his chin. ‘If Septicius Clarus is responsible for the murder of Rufinus Crassus and Messalus, he knows that you are investigating it. He will not want you involved in anything he’s planning. So he’ll try to freeze you out.’

  ‘You think these manoeuvres are connected with the murder? But how?’

  ‘That’s something I couldn’t say without further intelligence,’ Probus said. ‘What with one thing and another, I’ll have to rely on you for said intelligence, even though it’s something you sadly lack.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Flaminius. ‘You should write for the stage.’ He rose. ‘Alright, I’d better get going. I’ll return to the camp and see what I can find out. Then, by hook or by crook, I’ll join these manoeuvres and see what I can see. If I don’t get found out, I’ll come back tomorrow and give you a full report.’

  Probus rose too, and saluted him solemnly.

  ‘For those about to die…’ Flaminius said under his breath, and he marched out like a gladiator stepping out onto the sands of the arena.

  Foursquare and indomitable, the Praetorian Camp loomed above the shanties and slums that had grown up beyond the crumbling old walls of Rome. Loopholes in its castellated walls stared down at the teeming city in defiance, just as a marching camp amidst the heather of Caledonia might defy the encircling hills.

  Two guards greeted Flaminius as he approached. Since the camp was outside the walls of Rome, while he wore a toga, they were resplendent in breastplates, their oval shields were bright with colour, their burnished helmets gleamed in the evening sun, their crests jutted skywards like the crests of proud cockerels. Respectfully they asked him for the password.

  ‘Mesopotamia,’ he said, repeating what he had been told that morning.

  The two guards exchanged glances. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the first one. ‘Have you not been given the new password?’

  Flaminius started and looked suspiciously at the two guards. How could there be a new password? It was changed daily. The old one would still apply.

  ‘New password?’ he said, playing for time. ‘Are you out of your mind, soldier? The word of the day is Mesopotamia.’

  The two Praetorians shook their heads.

  ‘It’s been changed, sir,’ the other guard said. ‘Prefect’s orders. Weren’t you notified?’

  ‘I’ve been on duty at the palace,’ Flaminius said. ‘The prefect was there. He said nothing about new passwords.’ He felt cold, and it wasn’t just the evening chill. What was going on?

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the first Praetorian, a tall young fellow with a lantern jaw, ‘but you can’t come in without giving the correct password.’

  ‘This is absurd,’ said Flaminius. ‘You know who I am, I’m Tribune Flaminius of the ninth cohort. Let me pass.’

  He tried to walk between them. They crossed their spears in an X, blocking his path. He eyeballed the second Praetorian, a shorter, older man with sloe eyes and thick lips.

  ‘Get out of my way, soldier,’ he blustered, ‘or I’ll have the centurion of the watch flog you.’

  ‘Come on, now, sir,’ said the first Praetorian. ‘You know the rules. We’d be flog
ged all the more for letting you in without giving the password.’

  Flaminius gritted his teeth.

  ‘Get me the centurion of the watch,’ he ordered.

  The centurion was called and in a short while he joined them.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Can’t let you in unless you give the password, sir.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘More than my job’s worth to let you in. You should have received the password from the prefect while you were on duty. Sir.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Flaminius, frustrated. ‘Let me pass, I tell you!’ When the centurion shook his head stolidly, he sighed. ‘Get me your tribune!’

  The tribune was called, and in a short while he joined them. It was Aulus Fabricius Cotta.

  ‘Tribune Flaminius,’ he drawled. ‘My centurion says you refuse to give the password. What’s got into you? You should know that even heroes of your magnitude can’t get into camp without giving the password.’

  ‘I’ve given the password I was given this morning,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Will you call last act on this little comedy and let me in? We’ve got manoeuvres tonight, didn’t you know that?’

  ‘I know all about them,’ the tribune crowed. ‘Yes, you’re right. You ought to go to your cohort at once and prepare them, or you’ll be in trouble with the prefect.’ But he didn’t move, and nor did his men.

  ‘Let me in, then,’ said Flaminius patiently.

  Fabricius Cotta shook his head, giving a thin lipped smile. ‘Can’t be done until you give me the password, old man.’

  ‘Oh, get out of my way, you chinless fool,’ said Flaminius, a lot less patiently. Shoving Fabricius Cotta to one side, he strode through the gate.

  He didn’t get far. After a yard or so, the two Praetorians seized him by the arms. He tried to shrug them off. The centurion came up in front of him. ‘Sorry about this, sir,’ he said, and punched Flaminius in the solar plexus.