Flaminius watched him leave, pondering what he had said. Something had been going on here tonight that he didn’t understand. And he didn’t like it. There was another mystery here, and it didn’t involve Rufinus Crassus’ murder.
Or did it?
—2—
Tibur, Hadrian’s Villa, 8th April, 122 AD
The following morning found Flaminius going about his official duties as officer of the watch, diligently organising duty rosters for his men, setting the password for the day—Vigilance!—and despatching patrols to tour the gardens, without impinging on the daily life of the empress or her guests. He also had guards stationed at several key points: outside the hall of the philosophers, in the library courtyard, at the hostel, and outside the barracks.
All these were standard duties, and he had done much the same the previous day. This morning, however, he was determined to have guards scattered throughout the Villa. He had also given them orders to report anything unusual.
‘The empress will think you’re spying on her,’ Chief Centurion Messalus warned him gruffly, ‘her and her guests. They won’t take kindly to this, guards everywhere. Have you cleared it with the Prefect?’
‘May I remind you, centurion,’ Flaminius said, ‘that I’m officer in command? The Prefect is here as a guest of the empress, not on duty. He has not told me that he wants to be consulted on such trivial matters as the duty roster.’
The centurion grunted and departed from the office. Flaminius saw him shortly afterwards, strolling across the peristyle of the palace. Off to make trouble, he guessed with a heavy heart; going over his tribune’s head like a spoiled brat running to his big brother. No doubt the Prefect would disapprove of Flaminius’ orders.
Flaminius wished his job here really was nothing more than posting guards and sending out patrols. Working undercover was proving more problematic than he had imagined.
Deciding it was time he made himself scarce, he collected two Praetorians from the guardroom and left the barracks before Messalus returned with their superior officer.
Rounding the colonnade of the palace’s outer peristyle, he made his way to the pharmacy. The two guards on duty saluted him smartly.
‘Anything to report?’ he said. They shook their heads.
‘That witch is in residence,’ one guard said. ‘She of the Marsi.’
‘I’d better pop in on her,’ Flaminius said. ‘Oh, and in future, don’t speak like that about imperial servants or I’ll put you on a charge.’
The guard snapped to attention. Flaminius told his own escort to remain with the others, then entered the pharmacy building.
He found Erichtho in a cool, gloomy storeroom, on her knees, searching through rack after rack of small green glass phials. ‘So this is the poison store,’ he said jovially.
The withered old woman looked up.
‘You’re pleased to joke, tribune,’ she said irritably. ‘They are perfumes that I blend for the empress and her handmaidens. These contain nothing but alum, iris and rose petals. Nothing toxic. I know the reputation my people have amongst city folk, but I am hardly Locusta.’
‘Who?’ Flaminius said, not getting the reference.
‘Locusta,’ she replied. ‘Nero’s own personal poisoner. Don’t you know any history?’
Flaminius shrugged. ‘My tutor taught me history, but it was all ancient stuff. I liked the Spartans, and Alexander the Great… A lot of it was a bit dry, though—the Roman Republic bored me rigid—so my tutor concentrated on grammar and logic and rhetoric, useful things like that. I don’t really know much that happened after they murdered Julius Caesar. That’s where he gave up on me.’
‘If you really want to know the story, ask the imperial secretary,’ she said impatiently. ‘He takes a ghoulish glee in retelling that and many other lurid stories. Of course, that sort of thing doesn’t go on these days, not under this new breed of emperor.’ Flaminius thought she sounded oddly wistful. She rose to her feet and dusted herself down. ‘How may I assist you, tribune?’
He made himself pause awkwardly. ‘I understand you mix love philtres…’ She raised her eyebrows. Dexterously, he spun a yarn about problems consummating a love affair, surprising himself by managing to blush quite convincingly. After listening curtly, she prescribed him a suitable potion. Having had an opportunity to demonstrate her expertise, she seemed to warm to the young tribune.
Flaminius took the slim, narrow, dark green phial from her and studied its label, while Erichtho noted its dispensation down on a wax writing tablet. It would be charged to the Guards’ account.
‘You think that Rufinus Crassus took poison?’ he asked. ‘The empress seemed to dismiss the idea.’
Erichtho regarded him calmly. ‘The senator died suddenly in the night,’ she said. ‘From what I saw, he was a healthy man, so a sudden distemper would be unusual… but he had incurred great shame. Isn’t suicide in such situations the Roman way? He had no sword to fall on when he was confined, but perhaps he had poison about his person. Anyway, shortly afterwards I found that some of my cantharadin was missing.’
‘Cantharidin?’ Flaminius frowned uneasily. She hadn’t mentioned this earlier. ‘That’s what it says here!’ he added, alarmed, indicating the phial. ‘You said it’s a love philtre!’ Was this witch trying to poison him?
‘In the right dosage,’ Erichtho explained, ‘it excites the male member and can help overcome precisely the symptoms you have described. However, too high a dose causes blistering, abdominal pains, melancholy, nausea, haemorrhage, and even death. Perhaps such was the fate of the senator.’
‘You saw the body?’ Flaminius said. ‘Did it show signs of cantharadin poisoning?’
‘I saw his body,’ she said, ‘but I wasn’t able to examine it. It was sent almost at once to his shamed family for cremation and burial. But his face—in death it was not that of a man who had died easily.’ She paused. ‘Why the interest, tribune?’
Flaminius had been clumsy. He had awoken her suspicions without getting any more information than he had from Chief Centurion Messalus—except, an apparent contradiction; she thought the senator had been poisoned, Messalus didn’t. All this was getting him nowhere, though. After all, she could well have been the poisoner herself, if there had been one. She had the means, even if her motive wasn’t obvious. But he hardly knew her. Who could guess what motivated a Marsi witch?
‘Oh, no reason at all, really,’ he said. ‘It just interested me. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? And, well, I was instrumental in Rufinus Crassus being arrested. I suppose we’ll never know.’ He waggled the green phial. ‘I’ll go and give this a try, shall I? Many thanks.’
He hurried from the pharmacy, feeling glad Probus hadn’t been there to see him making such an ass of himself.
Halfway back to the barracks, the possibility returned to him that Erichtho could have been the poisoner. But why. For her own reasons? Or was she working for someone else? She had said that some of her cantharadin had been missing. Was that true? If so, who had stolen it? Unless this had been a lie to cover up her own villainy.
Maybe it had been taken by a man who genuinely was having problems with their manhood, and hadn’t the gall to ask her for help to her face. Or more likely someone who wanted to shut Rufinus Crassus’ mouth before he betrayed his co-conspirators. Falco had been in on the plot, but he had been up in Caledonia at the time. Someone else was at the back of all this.
When he got back to barracks, Flaminius went to his office and placed the phial on his desk. As he was sitting down, there was a knock at the door and he went to open it. Chief Centurion Messalus stood there, and at his side was Prefect Septicius Clarus, looking impatient.
‘There you are, tribune,’ the prefect said. ‘What’s this about you demanding reports from your patrols?’ He turned to Chief Centurion Messalus. ‘Dismissed, centurion.’
Flaminius took a deep breath. Deferring the argument had not improved things, it never did. He felt like a small chil
d who had got into trouble and now had to face up to the consequences.
Smiling cordially, he led Septicius Clarus into the office. ‘Surely it’s normal for the officer in charge to want reports from his men?’ he said after the Prefect refused to sit. ‘I’m in charge of security. I need to know what is happening.’
‘You do not need to know about the private business of the empress and her guests!’ Septicius Clarus shouted. He paced up and down. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, young fellow. If you want to get on in the Guard, you’ve got to follow the rules—the written ones and the unwritten ones.’ He became paternal. ‘You can’t rely on your previous heroism to make you the golden boy forever, lad. I’ve already had to speak to you about poking your nose in where it’s not wanted, haven’t I?’
He stared curiously at the desk and the phial Flaminius had lain on top of a sheaf of reports. Picking up the phial, he studied it, apparently intrigued. He chuckled to himself.
He added, ‘The empress is making a return visit on her in-laws in the city. You and your men will accompany us on the road.’
Flaminius saluted smartly. ‘Sir!’ he said. Septicius Clarus gave him an amused look, replaced the phial, and departed without further words.
Flaminius grinned. Septicius Clarus had softened on recognising the phial’s contents. Perhaps he had been in need of the same treatment in the past: an eager young tribune no longer seemed so much a threat if he couldn’t perform as a lover.
As it happened, a return to Rome would be convenient, if Flaminius could get a bit of spare time.
—3—
Rome, 8th April, 122 AD
That afternoon Flaminius and his Praetorians escorted several carriages containing the empress and her entourage down the Tiburtine Way to Rome. Leaving an honour guard at the Imperial Palace, where the emperor’s sister Paulina was holding a dinner party, Flaminius and his men returned to their barracks in the Praetorian Camp. Prefect Septicius Clarus also accompanied them, explaining to the empress that he would return to the palace after concluding some business in his headquarters.
As soon as his men were settled in the cohort barracks, Flaminius left them in the hands of Chief Centurion Messalus. Hastily changing into a toga, he hurried down into the hot, bustling city.
Passing the Roman Forum and the Colosseum he climbed the Caelian Hill to the Castra Peregrina. A smaller barracks than the mighty Praetorian Camp, it was the central base for the Commissary of the legions. The innocuous name concealed their true identity as the imperial secret service.
He found Centurion Probus in his office at the back of the building. The door was open and the centurion was bent over a sheaf of reports, fanning his face in the heat. Grinning, Flaminius reached out and rapped on the door. Probus glanced up calmly.
‘Ah, Tribune Flaminius,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could drag yourself away from your duties at the Imperial Villa. Shut the door behind you and take a stool.’
Flaminius did as he was bade. Probus was a short but massively built man about Messalus’ age, balding, with iron grey hair at the back of his head, and an aquiline nose that had been broken at some point. He finished reading his report and put it away to one side. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What progress have you made?’
‘I’ve inspected the place where Rufinus Crassus died,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Nothing there of note, except an incomprehensible inscription.’
‘You noted it down, of course,’ Probus said.
Flaminius stared at him. He shook his head. ‘No, it was gibberish. Maybe the senator scratched it when he was delirious. He was poisoned, it seems.’
‘Poisoned, was he?’ Probus asked. ‘What did the inscription say?’
Flaminius shook his head. ‘It was… gibberish. Unreadable.’
‘Probably in cipher. You should have noted it down. Have I taught you nothing?’
‘The important thing is, he could have been poisoned,’ Flaminius said, ‘and I think I might know who provided the poison.’ Hurriedly, he told the centurion all that he had found out. Probus laughed when Flaminius told him the cover story he had used to talk with Erichtho.
‘So the senator died in a locked room,’ Probus said. ‘You say of poison. But who administered it? This Marsian witch? But why?’ He brooded for a moment. ‘Who was first on the scene?’
‘My First Spear,’ Flaminius replied. ‘He was on watch all night. No one gained access to the prisoner. There’s a small window high up in the wall, but there’s no way to open it and it would be difficult to get up there from the outside without a ladder. Someone would have noticed that.’
‘So if he was poisoned, he could only be poisoned by someone with access to the prisoner,’ Probus said.
Flaminius sighed. Had the old fool not been listening? ‘Chief Centurion Messalus said that no one had access, because he was on guard all night.’ Probus lifted an eyebrow at the centurion’s name but he made no comment. ‘Problem is,’ Flaminius went on, ‘he says that the prisoner wasn’t poisoned… but how would he know? Erichtho said she found that some of her cantharadin was missing.’
‘No one had access to the prisoner,’ Probus said, ‘except the guard on duty, who was first on the scene.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what happened in these parts when Hadrian became emperor?’
Flaminius shrugged. This was hardly relevant. ‘I was in Britain at the time. But I suppose there was a ceremony.’
Probus nodded. ‘I was in Britain too,’ he reminded the tribune, ‘but obviously I paid closer attention to imperial affairs. Yes, there was a ceremony, of course there was, when the emperor entered the city, but I’m talking about what happened before that. The emperor succeeded his adoptive father Trajan…’
‘…of Sacred Memory,’ Flaminius said mock piously. Probus gave him an old fashioned look.
‘Hadrian succeeded Trajan,’ he repeated, ‘while still at the wars in the East. The emperor took his time about returning to the city, having a number of rebellions out east to crush along the way. But he also got wind of a conspiracy against him in Rome, among the senators. He sent orders to Attianus, who was Praetorian Prefect back then.
‘In response to his orders, Attianus unleashed a reign of terror, despatching Praetorian assassins to kill any senators who had shown enmity to Hadrian while he was still a private citizen. No trial, no evidence. Attianus waded in their blood.’
Memory blossomed. ‘Oh yes,’ Flaminius said. ‘I heard something about it in the mess, senators of consular rank being cut down. People said that the new emperor was shaping up to be as bad as any of his predecessors. In Britain they did, anyway.’
‘They said the same throughout the empire,’ Probus replied. ‘One of Hadrian’s first acts on returning to Rome was to have Attianus dismissed—a man who had been his friend and adviser since his youth—but it did not rid him of the taint of tyranny his actions had given him. And, on the empress’ suggestion, the relative nonentity Septicius Clarus was appointed in his place...’
‘I see,’ said Flaminius. He thought he knew what Probus was getting at in his longwinded way. ‘So that’s how Septicius Clarus became Prefect—through the empress’ favour. It would explain why they’re so terribly friendly…’ He told Probus about seeing the pair of them arm in arm, and how while watching them he had found himself watching Suetonius Tranquillus, also spying on them. And how Suetonius Tranquillus had returned to Rome in deep dudgeon shortly afterwards.
‘He spoke to me before he went,’ Flaminius added, ‘but he wouldn’t tell me why he was leaving.’
Probus grunted. ‘I might take a stroll by the imperial secretary’s offices at some point,’ he said, ‘to have a chat with him. Sounds like he knows something that could prove useful. But I didn’t tell you that story to explain how Septicius Clarus became your commanding officer. There’s one little fact I haven’t shared with you.
‘I have access to confidential files, naturally, as part of my work here. That’s why I know so much about these events. I don’t r
eally blame you for not having the full story, since much of it was kept from public ears. Something that very few people know are the names of the Praetorian assassins who carried out the killings. But records are always kept somewhere. I have seen a list giving the names of the senators killed and the Praetorians who killed them. And next to the name of one Senator Nigrinus it is noted that his killer was a Praetorian centurion called Messalus.’
‘Chief Centurion Messalus?’ Flaminius was shocked. ‘My First Spear?’
‘Who was first on the scene of the murder of Rufinus Crassus,’ Probus reminded him.
‘No, that can’t be right,’ Flaminius argued. ‘Chief Centurion Messalus was on guard all night…’
‘Yes,’ Probus said, ‘giving him several hours to murder the senator before raising the alarm in the morning. No wonder he denies Rufinus Crassus was poisoned.’
Flaminius rose decisively. ‘I’ll arrest him at once and have him interrogated.’
Probus flapped a hand at the tribune to take his seat again.
‘We don’t know any of this for certain,’ he said testily. ‘We can’t charge around making groundless accusations or we’ll risk losing all credibility. We need proof! Besides, even if we identify him as the killer of Rufinus Crassus, that’s immaterial. The senator was an assassin himself, if a failed one—thanks to you, tribune.’
He flashed the tribune a bleak smile and Flaminius preened himself a little.
‘Unfortunately, while you and I halted the conspiracy between us, we failed to root out the conspirators entirely. Yes, Rufinus Crassus was stopped, while Falco lost face and is unlikely to be trusted in future, but we need to know who was behind both of the plotters. If Chief Centurion Messalus was also part of the conspiracy, at least insofar as obeying orders to poison Rufinus Crassus, before the senator could break under questioning and reveal the names of his co-conspirators...’
Murder in Hadrian's Villa Page 3
