Murder in Hadrian's Villa

by Gavin Chappell

  As the tribune sank winded to the gravel, it came to him that he was doing a poor job of spying. He was supposed to be surreptitious. If this wasn’t drawing attention to himself, he didn’t know what was.

  The two Praetorians hauled him to his feet. ‘Take him to his own barracks block,’ Fabricius Cotta called, ‘and tell his men to keep him under close confinement. Impress upon them that anyone defying these orders will suffer the ultimate penalty.’

  ‘Sir!’ The centurion saluted and led the two Praetorians, Flaminius hanging limply between them, away into the camp.

  His sandaled heels dragged in the gravel as he stared up into the evening skies, feeling weak and in pain. How was he going to get out of this one? It seemed impossible. Even the fact he was being imprisoned by his own men wouldn’t help. They’d done nothing to help him last time; ha! they weren’t that ill-disciplined. What would they think if he was confined a second time?

  And what would Probus think? If Flaminius knew him, the ruthless commissary centurion would wash his hands of him and find another aide-de-camp.

  Flaminius’ barracks block was on the far side of the camp. When they reached it, Junius Italicus was sent for, and a moment later the chief centurion appeared at the entrance to the block.

  His face was blank, emotionless. Without questioning Flaminius’ guards, he showed them through to a room at the back. A guard on duty unlocked the door. Flaminius was ushered into the small, cold, gloomy room and the door slammed to behind him.

  He stood there, rubbing at his sore chest, listening to the scrape of the key in the lock. Once again, he was a prisoner. He sat down on a bench and tried to get his breath back. That centurion packed a powerful punch.

  He debated his next action. No way was he going to be able to spy on these manoeuvres now. With luck, he’d be able to get out of this with Probus’ help.

  He wondered why he was in this situation anyway. Why had the password been changed without his knowledge? Alright, he shouldn’t have tried to force his way in. That had been stupidity born of desperation. But the prefect had changed the password. It was unheard of. And everyone seemed to know about it except him.

  Just as everyone had known about the manoeuvres—except him.

  Cold sweat broke out on his brow. Septicius Clarus was persecuting him. He must have paid those men to attack him. He was obviously behind the business in the amphitheatre.

  Flaminius would have to get out of here, and he would have to find out what these manoeuvres were all about. But how in Hades was he going to do that?

  After a short rest, he started feeling a bit better. He went over to the door and rapped on it testily.

  ‘Gaoler?’ he cried. ‘Gaoler! Come at once!’

  He heard footsteps from the corridor outside. They stopped at his door. ‘You’ll be fed when it’s time, sir,’ came the voice of the gaoler.

  ‘I don’t want food!’ Flaminius barked. ‘Get me my First Spear. Get me Junius Italicus.’

  ‘The centurion’s preparing the men for the manoeuvres tonight,’ the gaoler told him. ‘He’s busy.’

  ‘Gaoler,’ said Flaminius. ‘You know this is a mistake. I’m your commanding officer. You’d better cooperate with me or as soon as I’m out of here, I’ll make sure you regret it, understand?’ But all he heard were the gaoler’s receding footsteps.

  He sat back down on the bench. This was all Septicius Clarus’ doing. Whatever these manoeuvres were, they were being kept from Flaminius. The prefect had manipulated events so that he would be unable to report on them. He wished he knew what Septicius Clarus knew about him. Did he suspect? Or had someone betrayed him? Flaminius thought about Junius Italicus. He didn’t trust the man. There was more going on beneath that beefy exterior than he let on. But he represented Flaminius’ only chance in this situation…

  He heard the return of the gaoler’s footsteps, followed by a weighty, confident tread. The gaoler stopped outside the door. The key scraped in the lock. The door swung open, letting in light from the passage. Standing in the doorway was the gaoler. Behind him was Junius Italicus.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, sir?’ The centurion’s face was immobile as he gazed down at his superior officer.

  Flaminius rose and approached the doorway. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay back, sir,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘You’re our prisoner now.’

  Flaminius’ shoulders slumped. He sat back down heavily. ‘I’ll admit that I’m impressed by how keen you are to obey orders,’ he said. ‘But you must realise that this is a mistake. Do you know why I’ve been imprisoned?’

  Junius Italicus nodded. ‘Attempting to gain entrance to the camp without giving the correct password, attacking fellow Praetorians...’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look good, sir. Luckily for you the prefect is busy at the moment, the whole Guard is.’

  ‘With these manoeuvres you told me about?’ Flaminius asked. ‘You know better than anyone that I hadn’t been told about them. And why? Someone’s working against me, that’s why! They made sure I didn’t get the new password. They made sure I didn’t know about the manoeuvres. I’m being frozen out.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that, sir?’ Centurion Junius Italicus asked.

  Flaminius glanced down at the floor. ‘I can’t say,’ he admitted. He looked up and met Junius Italicus’ eyes, but they gave nothing away.

  ‘These are serious allegations, sir,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus. ‘Surely you’re not going to make them without evidence.’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘I can say no more.’

  ‘Then, sir,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘there’s nothing I can do. Forgive me, I have work to do. Farewell.’

  The gaoler closed the door quietly behind the centurion as he departed and Flaminius was left in the gloom of the room.

  He sat motionless on the bench. The distant sound of orders and the clatter of weapons and armour drifted on the night air outside. The sound of marching feet receded into the distance. Had the manoeuvres begun? It looked like he wouldn’t be joining them.

  He rose to his feet and began to pace up and down the little room. He was a prisoner again. Now he had nothing to do but wait. Septicius Clarus had framed him, had tried to kill him more than once already, and now Flaminius was at his power. The Praetorian Prefect had the power of life and death over his men, although it was rare that he exercised it off the battlefield. In this case, he was sure to have Flaminius executed as soon as possible. Flaminius knew too much.

  And yet he knew nothing at all. He went over what little he had learnt. Some kind of conspiracy connected with Rufinus Crassus, clearly. They all knew the Augustus cipher that Flaminius had learnt from Suetonius Tranquillus’ manuscript. But he didn’t know what they were plotting. Except that it involved an attack on the Praetorian wages train. He couldn’t work out what that would achieve. And then there were these mysterious manoeuvres. What could their purpose be?

  Angrily, he gave the door a kick. To his surprise, it swung open, revealing an empty corridor.

  Astounded, he stared down the deserted passageway. Even the gaoler seemed to have gone on manoeuvres. Why had the door been left open? Carelessness? Not in Flaminius’ cohort, please! Then… it was some kind of trap. Septicius Clarus wanted to avoid the embarrassment of another trial, and he had decided to have Flaminius killed while attempting to escape. That could be it. But where was everyone? The barracks seemed to be deserted.

  Distantly, he heard paradeground shouts and the tramp of sandaled feet.

  That decided him. He had an opportunity here, and it would be foolish to throw it aside. He stepped outside into the corridor and marched down to the sleeping quarters.

  All deserted, all empty. He looked in one bunkroom and saw nothing left to show it had been inhabited except for chests on the floor and a couple of dice on a low table. On a stand nearby was a spare set of armour, breastplate and a crested helmet. An oval shield lay against the w
all and beside it was a spear. He wondered who had left it behind, then remembered that one of his men had been in the hospital block with food poisoning for the last week.

  He was wasting time. Hurriedly he slipped off his heavy woollen toga and strapped on the breastplate. It was difficult without any help, and he had made a couple of mistakes with the straps while he heard the marching sound receding. It sounded like they were heading towards the main gates.

  Finally he strapped on the breastplate. He grabbed the helmet and donned it in a hurry, not bothering to lace up the chinstrap, grabbed the spear and shield, then crept from the barracks block, to all intents and purposes a rank and file Praetorian guard.

  Creeping in armour proved difficult, and on second consideration not a good idea. He marched smartly down the neatly raked gravel path between the barracks blocks, spear at the slope, until he came out into the Praetorian Way[15].

  It was filled with marching guards heading north towards the headquarters building, then west along the Principal Way. He waited in the shadows of the barracks block until he saw that the last of the cohorts marching past. At this, he marched out and tagged on at the end of the line.

  ‘Keep up there!’ a centurion barked urgently. He marched behind the other Praetorians. All had their eyes fixed firmly forwards, and none seemed to notice the interloper.

  They filed out of the gates and came into the open space of ground between the camp and the suburban slums. Praetorians stood at intervals holding torches high. On either side of the parade ground, troops of Imperial Horse Guards sat their horses. They must have ridden here from their own barracks near the Castra Peregrina.

  Two men stood at the front on a rostrum. Flaminius knew one of the distant figures had to be Septicius Clarus since he wore the uniform of a Praetorian Prefect. At his side stood a whitehaired man in a toga that had the broad purple stripe of a senator. Standing right at the back, Flaminius was too far away to make him out in detail.

  At this distance he couldn’t even be sure if the prefect was Septicius Clarus, but who else could it be? His colleague Marcius Turbo was in Britain with the emperor. The senator remained a mystery. Who was he and why was he here?

  Flaminius wished he could break rank and go up to find out who it was, but that would achieve nothing except his recapture and imprisonment a second time. And this time he was sure no one would be so negligent as to leave the door unlocked.

  The Praetorian Prefect removed his helmet and addressed the assembled soldiers in loud, declamatory tones. Although he was still too far away for Flaminius to make out his face, his voice was recognisable as that of Septicius Clarus. After a rousing if generic speech about courage, strength and honour, he told them:

  ‘We will be marching down the Viminal Way.’ ‘Remember that this is only a drill. On reaching the Forum you will be given orders by your individual tribunes. The ninth cohort, whose tribune is currently unavailable, will be taking orders from its chief centurion.’

  Flaminius squirmed a little. He looked to see whose cohort he had surreptitiously joined and groaned inwardly. As fate would have it, the tribune was Aulus Fabricius Cotta himself.

  ‘Our main object is to provide protection and an escort for the senator accompanying us,’ the prefect continued, ‘who will take the place of the emperor in this exercise.’ He saluted them, and added simply, ‘Praetorians and Horse Guards; forwards!’

  Cohort by cohort, troop by troop, they marched or trotted from the paradeground.

  Flaminius marched at the back, wishing he had taken the time to tie his chin strap since it was flapping round beneath his chin. Having never served as a common legionary, he was unused to carrying a spear, and the shield was heavy.

  They marched down the shadow-hung Viminal Way, passing the suburbs before entering the city proper through an open gate in the walls. He wondered how much he would learn from all this.

  It seemed to be nothing more than an exercise. The senator, whoever he was, was there to take the place of the emperor, currently in Britain. But Flaminius didn’t know the point of the exercise. Would everything become clear when they reached the Roman Forum? It would take a bit of a march to get there, and he was beginning to regret his hasty actions. He risked being found out, being imprisoned again. But there must be a reason why Septicius Clarus had gone to such lengths to ensure he wasn’t present at a simple if apparently rather pointless military exercise like this. There must be more to it than met the eye.

  Their road took them down the side of the Viminal Hill, one of the famous Seven Hills of Rome. In Romulus’ day it had been a wooded prominence rising above the marshes of the Tiber, but now it was jam packed with buildings. Finally they came down into the valley between the Viminal and the Esquiline, entering the Subura, the famous slum district of the city.

  It must be long past midnight. The bars and brothels and eating houses that lined the streets were empty of the revellers Flaminius remembered from convivial evenings spent there. Now the blind, crumbling walls of the slums echoed back the monotonous tramp… tramp… tramp of Praetorian feet, and the clip clop counterpoint of Horse Guard steeds.

  Now they marched across the valley bottom with the hills of Rome on every side. Up ahead the Palatine was black against the skyline. Temples and tenements, basilicas and colonnades opened out until they were at the edge of the Roman Forum, with the new column raised in honour of Trajan towering against the few stars visible in a cloudy sky.

  They halted, and the tribunes gave orders to their cohorts. Fabricius Cotta turned to his own men.

  ‘We will be surrounding the Senate House,’ he lisped. ‘It’s our duty to insure that it is safe from attack while the … emperor… approaches. The centurions will direct you.’

  ‘Come on, you pigs,’ Cotta’s chief centurion barked. ‘Forward!’

  As the other cohorts fanned out across the Roman Forum, Fabricius Cotta’s men marched past the Julian Basilica. It was silent and shadowy, eerie to Flaminius’ mind, since he was used to it bustling with shoppers and magistrates’ clerks. Here stood the law courts and offices and dozens of shops. It was also home to the moneylenders, and there was one shop Flaminius had attended several times while suffering from financial problems…

  On the far side, the Forum opened out at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Near the Gemonian Steps stood a small house with a peaked roof and a large pair of double doors beneath three large windows, at an angle to the main Roman Forum. Moonlight fell upon its roof. Flaminius felt his mouth go dry at the spectral sight. This was the Curia, the meeting house of the Senate of Rome.

  His cohort approached it at the double, and formed an avenue of steel, two lines flanking the approach to the doors, spears at the slope, shields raised.

  The tramping of sandaled feet echoed from the great moonlit buildings all around them. Another Praetorian cohort quickstepped up the Sacred Way past the equestrian statue of Domitian from the direction of the Temple of Venus and Rome. Another marched down the Gemonian Steps. A troop of Horse Guards trotted out from behind the House of the Vestals. And as several more cohorts and troops entered the Roman Forum, Septicius Clarus and his toga-clad companion appeared from behind the Julian Basilica. More guards marched beside them.

  ‘Attention!’ bawled Fabricius Cotta’s chief centurion. ‘Present arms!’

  Flaminius and his comrades snapped to attention. Septicius Clarus and his senatorial companion came forward to inspect them, accompanied by officers, including Fabricius Cotta.

  As the prefect and his companions moved down the line, Flaminius squinted to his left, desperately trying to identify the senator. The moon was setting by now, and the Roman Forum lay in darkness. Only meagre starlight glinted from the accoutrements of the hundreds of men gathered amongst the temples and basilicas.

  The chief centurion preceded the officers, glaring at each man as he went. Flaminius hoped that the darkness would also conceal the fact that he was an imposter. The prefect and the senator drew closer. B
efore they reached him, the chief centurion halted.

  ‘Eyes front! Your chinstrap’s undone,’ he hissed. With a shock, Flaminius realised he was addressing him. ‘You’re on a charge, lad! Report to me after the end of manoeuvres!’

  Flaminius stared forwards and made an involuntary move to drop his spear and tie his chinstrap. The centurion’s face darkened. ‘Not now!’ he hissed. ‘Keep your hand on your spear!’

  The prefect and the senator drew closer. Flaminius began to sweat again although the spring night was chill. Septicius Clarus was speaking jovially to several of the Praetorians. Flaminius hoped the prefect wouldn’t speak to him. Surely the man would recognise him even in this darkness. His blood surged in his ears, pounded like waves.

  At last they had reached him. Septicius Clarus inspected him, glaring disapprovingly at the untied chinstrap. ‘Smarten up there, soldier,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in the Praetorians now. Fabricius Cotta, what’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘Sir,’ said the chief centurion, before the tribune could reply, ‘I’ve already reprimanded the soldier. He’ll regret his slovenliness, may I assure you.’

  Afraid to move, Flaminius stared straight ahead and said nothing.

  ‘In my day, soldiers were better disciplined,’ came an elderly voice. It was the senator. Where’d Flaminius heard that voice before? ‘When I was governor of Pannonia, we’d have had such a slovenly soldier flogged by his men for such behaviour.’

  ‘Naturally, things will be a lot better on the day,’ Septicius Clarus murmured as they moved on. ‘Bear in mind that this is an exercise, a dry run.’

  The group moved on, coming at last to the Senate House doors. Here the senator and the prefect mounted the steps, halted, and stood for a moment in silence. Flaminius heard Septicius Clarus say, ‘Of course, on the day the doors would be opened, but we can’t arrange that just now.’

  ‘Very well,’ came that naggingly familiar voice. ‘Then this is the end of the exercise.’

  Septicius Clarus gave orders for the Praetorians to disperse, returning to the Praetorian camp in their individual cohorts. Fabricius Cotta’s chief centurion turned to the men of his cohort.