‘I propose a toast,’ the empress said, lifting her voice over the noise of conversation and raising her glass. ‘To the emperor!’
Dutifully, Flaminius lifted his own drink. Ursus Servianus grinned as the others lifted their glasses. The empress scowled at him, and only then, a little shamefaced, did he lift his own. Even then it was as if in acknowledgement of adulation.
The empress’ voice cut through the hubbub. Even the slave ceased his quiet recital. ‘I gathered you here today,’ she said, ‘for several reasons. But since then I have received a message. His imperial majesty, my husband, has departed the cold shores of Britain and will soon be returning to civilised lands.’
Everyone started talking at once. Again her voice cut through.
‘My husband has had word of disturbances in the East, and is going to find some way of making a settlement with the Parthians. However, there is a chance that he will deign to visit us on his way. If so, I want him to see nothing out of the ordinary.’ Her voice seemed to have an edge of menace to it.
Ursus Servianus spluttered on his drink. ‘I’m sure my brother in law will see nothing untoward,’ he said, wiping the residue off his clean shaven chin. He indicated his wife. ‘Paulina would make sure of that!’
She looked at him disapprovingly, but said nothing as usual.
Septicius Clarus grinned, and ran his fingers over his bald patch. ‘Should his imperial majesty visit the villa, I’m sure my men will be able to receive him warmly.’
Flaminius felt it necessary to say something at this point. ‘I’ll make sure my men are on permanent standby,’ he told the prefect.
Septicius Clarus looked over at him coldly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we replaced your cohort with Fabricius Cotta’s mob. His spit’n’polish approach is what the emperor will be anticipating. He’s not someone I’ve had to have confined on two separate occasions.’
Chastened, Flaminius withdrew himself from the conversation.
With a flourish of trumpets, the slaves entered bearing the main course. First slaves bearing bowls of iced water came round so diners could rid themselves of stains and crumbs. Then the main group of slaves brought in trays containing stuffed capons, sow’s udders, and a large sucking pig with anise and chives, served with dasheens and sour cream. In between them all were several different kinds of fish in fish sauces.
‘I don’t seem to have made much of an impression in the Praetorian Guard,’ Flaminius said bitterly to Medea as the slaves brought round the second course. He helped himself to a capon.
She looked at him wide eyed. ‘I’d say you’ve made quite an impression,’ she told him. ‘You were trouble when I met you in Britain and you’ve been trouble in Rome.’
Flaminius turned away, hurt. He concentrated his attentions on his capon. The sooner he could thwart this conspiracy and get out of this cloying atmosphere the better. He’d had more than enough of civilisation, and was half hoping to be stationed back to the barbarian north once this was all over. He’d had enough. He wanted to be released.
The conversation moved on to banalities, and he felt excluded, first by Septicius Clarus’ rudeness, and then by Medea’s cold attitude. Really, he didn’t know why he’d been invited. No one seemed to like him. He tried to strike up a conversation with Suetonius Tranquillus, having got on with him quite well on previous occasions, but the secretary was sullen and uncommunicative.
Flaminius sat quietly through the meal. Despite the flow of inconsequential chatter, there seemed to be a sombre undercurrent to the conversation.
Once the main course was over, slaves entered again to remove the dishes. Flaminius felt full, but far from satisfied. More slaves entered bearing amphorae whose cobwebbed terracotta exteriors proclaimed the age of the wine contained. A slave placed one with Medea and Flaminius. Flaminius saw a label on it that proclaimed it to be Falernian of the Opimian vintage. Despite himself he was impressed. That made it a century and a half old. Opimian was getting increasingly rare.
Suetonius Tranquillus was also examining the amphora he had been given. He spoke in his soft voice. ‘For those of you who don’t know your wine, this vintage was laid down during the consulship of Lucius Opimius[18], who crushed the Gracchi. The Republic was preserved in his day, and so was this wine. Alas, that wine should outlive the Republic!’
‘Life is short,’ said Septicius Clarus, ‘for republics and empires.’
Medea turned to Flaminius, sitting on the edge of her couch. She smiled at him, but it seemed more like the rictus of a corpse. Again she was toying with her ring.
‘May I pour you a glass?’ she asked. The slave had decanted the vintage into the glass pitcher and placed two beakers beside it.
Flaminius was surprised. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s very kind!’
‘Tribune,’ the empress called over, ‘give us your impression of these recent disturbances in the East. We know you are experienced in fighting barbarians.’
Flaminius looked around him. The tension in the room seemed to have increased and yet everyone was being nice to him all of a sudden.
‘Well, ma’am,’ he said, aware that all eyes were on him. Out of the corner of his own eye, he saw that Medea had poured him a glass of wine and was mixing it with water. ‘I’ve never been to the East. I should think that the Parthians are a different matter from the painted Caledonians I fought in Britain.’
‘Those Caledonians have been thoroughly trounced by his imperial majesty,’ Septicius Clarus remarked. ‘But will the Parthians be as easy to deal with?’
‘I’m not sure the Caledonians were easy to defeat, either,’ Flaminius said. ‘But really, I’m no expert on Eastern matters.’
He felt nervous. His mouth was dry. He reached for the glass of wine, then hesitated. Medea was looking over at Ursus Servianus as he began to give his opinion of the Parthian threat and regaled the company with his own extensive experiences in the East. Quickly he switched glasses. It was becoming a habit.
Medea turned round as he sipped from the glass. Her face was pale as she looked at him. She picked up her own glass and nursed it at her breast.
‘Do you suppose the Parthians are anything like the barbarians we met in Britain?’ he asked her.
She started, almost spilt her drink. ‘The barbarians in Britain?’ she asked. ‘I hated them. They were savage.’
‘The Parthians live in great cities, ancient cities like Babylon,’ Flaminius said. ‘The Caledonians had nothing like that. The Parthians may be barbarians in many ways but they have some civilisation.’
‘I know nothing about barbarians,’ Medea said. ‘They’re cruel and murderous.’
Flaminius laughed. ‘You think only barbarians have those particular vices?’ He trailed off as he saw she was sweating. ‘Are you feeling alright?’
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘Drink your wine.’
He sipped at it again. ‘This is a marvellous vintage,’ he told her.
‘You like it?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Won’t you try your own? It’ll make you feel better.’
She looked at the drink. With a shrug, she drank from it.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ he enthused. ‘You’re right; civilisation wins out over barbarism, if this wine is what it produces.’
She turned to look at him glassily. Her hair was matted with sweat. She opened her mouth to say something but only a terrible, sinister gurgle came out. Flaminius stared in shock.
She fell writhing from her couch onto the mosaic floor. Her breathing was harsh and erratic. Then, with a horrible sense of finality, one last breath sighed from her lips and she moved no more.
The room rose in uproar but Flaminius was frozen in his place. Erichtho pushed her way through the shouting figures. By the time she knelt down beside Medea’s body, the girl had stopped writhing. Erichtho put her fingers on the girl’s neck.
Abruptly she rose and stared accusingly at Flaminius.
‘She’s been poisoned,’
Erichtho said.
—20—
Medea lay motionless on the mosaic floor. Grief stricken, Flaminius rose and took up her body, cradling it in his arms, staring uncomprehendingly at Erichtho. Images of his time with Medea flashed through his mind. How could she have been poisoned? He’d swapped their glasses, yes; it had become a habit since Messalus’ death. But he had never seriously expected Medea to be the poisoner.
Septicius Clarus strode forward. ‘You’ve killed her. This lovely young girl! You’ve poisoned her. I saw you give her the poisoned drink.’
Flaminius lowered Medea’s body onto her couch. His voice cut through the din, strong and powerful.
‘How could you have known that it was poisoned?’ he demanded. ‘I exchanged the glasses, yes, but Medea drank the glass meant for me. If it was poisoned, the poisoner was trying to kill me.’ He took a look at Medea’s rigid, horrified face at his feet. ‘She poured me the wine. She…’
She must have meant to poison him. But why? They had been friends, lovers once. His eyes narrowed as he remembered how he had abused that friendship for the sake of his career.[19] It had been his own intrigues that had resulted in her previous employer casting her out. Only luck, and her own charm, had secured her this new position with the empress. And again he had abused their friendship, asking her to spy on the people in the Villa.
Had she been a double agent all along?
The empress herself looked on with her face pale, her lips grey. ‘Put him under arrest, prefect,’ she said formally. ‘We thought he was the murderer of the centurion, but he wriggled off the hook with some concocted alibi, and has wasted our time ever since claiming to be investigating the killing. Everyone in this room saw him poison my handmaiden. He won’t get away with it this time. Take him to be confined. As soon as the formalities of the trial are over, he will be executed.’
Flaminius looked about the dining chamber, hunted. Septicius Clarus produced a sword from beneath his toga.
‘It was accidental killing,’ Flaminius said, playing for time as the prefect advanced. ‘The law says I must provide a ram for a sacrifice of atonement[20], but I am not subject to the death sentence.’
The exit was on the far side. Several dining couches occupied the floor between Flaminius and freedom—and what uncertain liberty did that open doorway represent? No time to worry about it; he had to get away, back to Probus. Murder was one thing, but there was a plot afoot to kill the emperor. He had to get away.
As these thoughts scurried through Flaminius’ mind, Septicius Clarus brandished his sword.
‘A fair trial will determine whether or not the killing was accidental,’ the prefect said. ‘You’re coming with me.’ When Flaminius made no move to go with him, he turned his head to one side, and called out, ‘Guards!’
Flaminius broke and ran.
He shoved Septicius Clarus to one side, so the prefect collided with Medea’s couch and fell backwards, sprawling over her lifeless body, his dropped sword clattering across the mosaic floor. Frightened feasters stared up at him as Flaminius hurdled couches and raced for the exit; the empress’ screams and the prefect’s angry shouts rang in his ears. At last he reached the open doorway.
Two armoured figures loomed up before him, breastplates burnished, the crests of their helmets standing proud. He recognised the closer one as Junius Italicus.
‘Sorry about this, sir,’ the centurion said.
He clubbed Flaminius to the floor with the pommel of his sword.
Flaminius awoke to pain. To pain filled darkness. He tried to move and the painful darkness was laced tight with red threads of nausea. If this was a hangover, he’d never drink again.
Dread flooded his heart. This agony was not the result of a debauch. His head throbbed. The pain emanated from the top of his skull. He tried to sit up, but his body decided to vomit instead.
He lay back hearing a man groaning. Was someone else in this darkness with him? They kept on groaning. He wished they’d stop it, he wasn’t feeling well. After what seemed like an aeon, he realised that it was him.
Light blossomed in the empty darkness. A figure appeared silhouetted in the light. It crouched down beside him. He felt a cool, hard hand on his brow.
‘Sorry about this, sir.’
‘Junius Italicus?’ Flaminius said. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m afraid I hit you, sir,’ the centurion explained. ‘Your presence is requested by her imperial majesty. Let me help you to your feet, sir.’
As Flaminius rose, feeling very fragile, the thought flashed through his mind. Junius Italicus was a traitor, Junius Italicus was one of them. He’d always known it. But the certainty was as painful as the dent in his skull.
‘Am I summoned to trial, centurion?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Junius Italicus told him. ‘Just a preliminary hearing. Under the rose.’
Meaning it would be in secret, not public. Did they hope to do a deal with him? Were they afraid to face public trial, where he might make incriminating accusations? It was possible he could find some way to turn this to his advantage.
But they’d already tried to kill him more than once, why would they stop now? Maybe it was because the emperor was supposed to be in the neighbourhood. They might be able to get away with murder while the cat was away, but now Hadrian was back, they’d have to resort to legal proceedings.
The centurion and two other Praetorians half carried, half dragged him out into the blazing light of afternoon. He saw that he had come out into the main atrium of the palace. Gathered amongst the plants and fountains were several people who were familiar to Flaminius.
Sitting upon a high backed chair was the empress. Septicius Clarus stood a little behind her and to her right, dressed in full uniform. Sitting or standing nearby were Erichtho, Ursus Servianus, and the imperial secretary Suetonius Tranquillus. All watched in silence as Flaminius was dragged before them by the Praetorians.
‘Prisoner and escort, reporting for duty!’ Junius Italicus saluted the empress and the prefect.
The empress thanked him, and the guards flanked Flaminius as he stood unsteadily before her.
‘You stand accused of murdering my handmaiden Medea with poison,’ she told Flaminius. ‘You did this in front of numerous witnesses, several of whom are gathered here before us. You are also suspected of murdering your former chief centurion, Messalus. You will be tried and sentenced by your superior officer, Septicius Clarus, when a trial can be arranged. For the moment, however, I wish to speak with you on the subject. If you are willing to plead guilty on all charges, I can promise you that your sentence will be merciful.’
‘You’re accusing me of murder,’ said Flaminius bitterly. ‘If I plead guilty to that, I’ll be executed. How can a sentence of death be merciful?’
Septicius Clarus growled, ‘You young idiot. Your death will be merciful, that’s what ma’am is saying. Unless you refuse to plead guilty, in which case, depend upon it, you will be found guilty of poisoning the empress’ handmaiden, even if not for killing Messalus. And should you plead not guilty, I personally will ensure that you are thrown to the beasts in the Colosseum at the Games. Do you want to be torn apart? Or do you want the death befitting an officer of the Praetorian Guard? Everyone here will testify as eye witnesses to the handmaiden’s murder. Erichtho can also give evidence that the girl was poisoned. Plead guilty, and it will all be over quickly.’
‘So quickly that I won’t be able to embarrass you in public court?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I don’t think the Roman people will be pleased to hear that you, Septicius Clarus, are the lover of her imperial majesty, or that you have conspired with an ambitious senator to murder the emperor when he returns, then take over the state with the aid of the Praetorians.’
Septicius Clarus laughed uneasily. ‘The Roman people won’t believe your lies,’ he said, ‘and nor will the emperor if he returns before the trial.’
‘You hope he won’t,’ Flaminius said. ‘You don’t want him to he
ar what you’ve been planning. But how will you scrape together a donative to pay the Guard when your tame senator becomes emperor by your hand? Oh, of course, the Praetorians’ very own wages, stolen while being brought to the camp. Where are they now? And what will you do once you’ve paid the donative? How will you raise funds to pay the Praetorians in future? You know what happens if the Guard doesn’t get paid.’
Erichtho looked at the others.
‘What is the tribune talking about?’ She was bewildered. ‘I saw the handmaiden Medea poisoned by him, I saw it with my own eyes. I have agreed to testify in court. But what is this about a plot against the emperor? What is he accusing the prefect of?’
‘He’s obsessed by the idea,’ the empress said dismissively. ‘Ignore his ranting. There is no truth to it. There is no conspiracy against my husband.’
‘You’re very sure of that, ma’am,’ said Flaminius. ‘Anyone would think that someone as innocent as you would have no idea if there was or wasn’t a conspiracy. But since you are the prefect’s lover, you can hardly be ignorant.’
A gasp came from the assembled people. ‘You go too far, tribune!’ the empress cried.
‘I’ll go further, ma’am,’ Flaminius told her. ‘You conspired with your lover against your own husband. In the first place, the plan was that Rufinus Crassus would murder the emperor on his birthday, while Falco, governor of Britain, achieved a staged victory over the Caledonians. When word of the emperor’s death reached the province, his agents amongst the legions would incite them to proclaim their victorious governor as Hadrian’s successor, after which point they would march south and seize Rome. The empire would be plunged into civil war of the kind that broke out after Nero’s death, but you were willing to gamble on victory. After all, Trajan had become emperor under similar circumstances.
‘But that plot was discovered, by myself and my colleague Julius Probus. The staged victory over the Caledonians became a genuine battle, and in that battle the Ninth Legion was massacred. At the same time, I had come south down the roads of the empires with the haste that is possible for an imperial agent, accompanied by loyal Britons. At the last moment, I managed to stop Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt. He was imprisoned awaiting trial. That much was public knowledge, more or less. What happened afterwards only became clear to me recently. Some of it with your help, ma’am.’
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