Shadows In Bronze

Family: Born AD41, Rome, Italy, to M. Didius Favonius (aka Geminus) and Junilla Tacita. Plebian rank, father an auctioneer. Brother M. Didius Festus, legio XV Apollinaris, killed AD68, Bethel, Judaea; awarded Palisaded Crown.

Marriage: Helena Justina, d of D. Camillus Verus, senator, and Julia Justa. d Julia Junilla Laeitana, b AD73 Barcino, Hispania Tarraconensis; d Sosia Favonia, b AD75.

Career: cAD59, legio II Augusta, service in Britain (legion disgraced, cAD60); subsequently a speculator, location unknown; discharged on ? medical grounds, cAD66. Active as an informer (delator) in Rome; few details survive. Recorded engagements as imperial agent: Britain, AD71/2 and AD75 (conjectural sightings at Fishbourne Palace and Londinium); Magna Graecia/Campania, AD71; Germania/Germania Libera, AD71; Nabataea/Syria AD72; Baetica/Tarraconensis, AD73; Tripolitania/Cyrenaïca, AD74. Sightings in Greece, AD76, and Egypt, AD77, now thought to have been private visits.

Ascendancy believed to date from AD74, possibly after work on the Great Census, ? due to influence of Antonia Caenis, though she is known to have died in that period. Recorded as holding a procuratorial position at Temple of Juno Moneta, conjecturally identified as associated with the Sacred Geese and Augurs' Chickens (though this is contested on grounds of improbability). A period of relative prosperity almost certainly followed, when he may have dabbled in literary pursuits and the law. Took up with the Camillus brothers, relatives of his wife; they were subsequently notorious for political intrigue.

Connections: Vespasian and Titus thought well of Falco and used him for missions requiring discretion; Domitian loathed him, reason unknown. Camillus Verus was a supporter, but had awkward family background. Falco formed friendships with influential members of the Flavian court, notably Julius Frontinus (for whom he worked under cover in Britain) and Rutilius Gallicus with whom he shared an interest in poetry (putative joint recital, AD74 and murky link, ? related to captured Veleda, in late AD76). There are recently identified links with élite informers Paccius Africanus and Silius Italicus, against whom he spoke in the Basilica Julia, in AD76 or 77.

Publications: (Fragments only) The Spook Who Spoke, a Plautine comedy, tentatively identified as the prototype for Hamlet; known to have been performed in Palmyra in AD72 and recorded in the pinakes of the Great Library at Alexandria. Love poems (the Aglaia sequence) have not survived. Contemporaries deemed his Satires his best work, the favourite being a contemplation on parrots addressed to his personal friend L. Petronius Longus. Speech against Paccius Africanus, In re Calpurnia, appears to have been suppressed for political reasons.

The love story of the Emperor Vespasian, who brought peace to Rome after years of strife, and his mistress, the freed slave woman Caenis, this book recreates Ancient Rome’s most turbulent period –the reigns of Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero and Vespasian’s rise to power.

As their forbidden romance blossoms, Caenis is embroiled in political intrigue, while Vespasian embarks on a glorious career. Years pass, then Vespasian risks all in the climactic struggle for power – bringing hope for Rome, but a threat to the relationship that has endured for so long.

Lindsey Davis has written over twenty historical novels, beginning with The Course of Honour. Her bestselling mystery series features laid-back First Century detective Marcus Didius Falco and his partner Helena Justina, plus friends, relations, pets and bitter enemy the Chief Spy. After an English degree at Oxford University Lindsey joined the Civil Service, but became a professional author in 1989. Her books are translated into many languages and have been dramatized on BBC Radio 4. Her many prizes include the Premio Colosseo, awarded by the Mayor of Rome ‘for enhancing the image of Rome’, the Sherlock award for Falco as Best Comic Detective and the Crimewriters’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement.

Everywhere lay silent. The echoes of their own footfalls had whispered and died. No other sign of occupation disturbed the chill, tall, marble-veneered corridors of the staterooms on the Palatine Hill from which the Roman Empire was administered. Under the long-absent Emperor Tiberius these had never offered much of a homely welcome to strangers. Today was worse than ever. Arches that were meant to be guarded stood framed only by forbidding drapes whose heavy pleats had not been disturbed since they were first hung: No one else was here. Only that rich odour of hot meat and spices continued its ravishing assault.

The younger man set off walking faster. He wheeled around corners and brushed along passages as if he had just discovered the proper route to take until, after a fractional hesitation, he whipped open a small door. Before his brother caught up with him he ducked his head and strode through.

Her hair hung in a lank, sorry string. Her face was pasty, a sad contrast to the tinctured ladies at court. Yet despite her grubbiness, she wore her dull frieze dress with courageous style, and although he knew better he threw back at her drily, ‘Thanks! What an interesting girl!’

Afterwards Caenis could never quite remember which festival it had been. The time of year was certain. Autumn. Autumn, six years before Tiberius died. The year of the fall of Aelius Sejanus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard. Sejanus, who allegedly kept a pack of pet hounds he fed with human blood. Sejanus, who had ruled Rome with a grip of iron for nearly two decades and who wanted to be Emperor.

It could have been the great ten-day series of Games in honour of Augustus. The Augustales, which had been established as a memorial to Rome’s first Emperor and were now conducted in honour of the whole Imperial House, would have been an occasion which explained why Antonia had given most of her slaves and freedmen a holiday, including her Chief Secretary, Diadumenus. Even more likely would have been the actual birthday of Augustus, by then a long-established celebration, a week before October began. Thinking of Augustus, the founder of the Empire, could well have stirred Antonia to what she was about to do.

Foolish, at any rate, for anyone to attempt business at the Palace on such a day. On any state holiday the priests of the imperial cult led the city in the duties of religion while senators, citizens, freedmen and even slaves, from the most privileged librarians to the glistening bathhouse stokers, seized their chance and piled into the temples too. Here on the Palatine the slop-carriers and step-sweepers, the polishers of silver cups and jewel-encrusted bowls, the accountants and secretaries, the chamberlains who vetted visitors, the major-domos who announced their names, the lifters of door curtains and carriers of cushions, had all disappeared hours ago. Sejanus would be lording it at the ceremonies; the Praetorians, who ought to be guarding the Emperor, would be guarding him. Caesar’s palace complex, which even during Caesar’s long absence from Rome thrummed with occupation every day and rustled with innumerable murmurs of life into the dead of night, for once lay hushed.

‘Juno and Minerva –’ coughed Caenis, as she was forced back from her pan while the flame lapped sideways across the charcoal brazier in a palely whickering sheet. ‘We’ll all go up in smoke; will you shut that door!’

They were lost. Caenis guessed it at once. Even the open spaces and temples among the homes of imperial family members above the Circus Maximus were deserted. The public offices on the Forum side of the Palatine were closed. Stupid to come today. With no guards to cross spears in their faces these two had blundered down a wrong passageway and ended up bemused. Only people who wanted to indulge in sad habits alone were lurking in corners with their furtive pursuits. Only eccentrics and deviants, misers and malcontents: and Caenis.

She was one of the group of girls who worked with Diadumenus, copying correspondence for the lady Antonia. Today he had ordered her to remain quietly out of trouble; later she must go to the House of Livia, where their mistress lived, and ask whether any work was required. Caenis was junior but capable; besides, Diadumenus had really not anticipated that anything significant would occur. In most respects Caenis was, like everyone else, on holiday.

Hence the sausage. She had been enjoying both her solitude – rare for a slave – and the food too. She had scraped together the price by writing letters for other people and picking up lost coins from corridor floors. She had crept in here, sliced the meat evenly and was cooking it in a pan intended for emulsifying face creams before she ate her treat deliberately, on her own. She craved her sausage with good reason: her starved frame needed the meat and fat, her deprived senses hankered after nuts, spices and the luxury of food fiercely hot from a pan. She hated being interrupted.

Warily she tried to camouflage her annoyance. In Rome it was wise to be diplomatic. That applied to everyone. Men who thought they possessed the Emperor’s confidence today might be exiled or murdered tomorrow. Men who wanted to survive had to inveigle themselves into the clique surrounding Sejanus. Making friends had been unsafe for years, for the wrong association clung like onion juice under a chef’s fingernails. Yet so many promising careers were ending in disaster that today’s nobodies might just survive to ride in tomorrow’s triumph beneath the laurels and ribbons of the golden Etruscan crown.

Caenis gave her pan a rapid shimmy, agitating the spatula. She chortled derisively. ‘Rich, I hope?’ The two men glanced at one another, then with a similar slow regretful grin both shook their heads. ‘No use to me then!’

She saw their veiled embarrassment: traditionalists with good family morals – in public, anyway. Veronica would shake them. Veronica was the one to astonish a stiff-necked senator. She believed that a slavegirl who was vivacious and pretty could do as well for herself as she pleased.

Citizens never normally joked with slavegirls about their noble mothers; Caenis stared at him. He had a broad chest, heavy shoulders, a strong neck. A pleasant face, full of character. His chin jutted up; his nose beaked down; his mouth compressed fiercely, though he seemed good-humoured. He had steady eyes. She looked away. As a slave, she preferred not to meet such a gaze.

Against her better judgement she replied, ‘Or is the Senate not ready for you?’ She had already noticed his obstinate roughness, a deliberate refusal to hide his country background and accent; she admired it, though plenty in Rome would call it coarse.

There was a sudden stillness, which she secretly enjoyed. Though the cubbyhole looked like a perfumery, the two men would be wondering whether this was where the famous Empress had mixed up the poisons with which, allegedly, she removed those who stood in her way. Livia was dead now, but the rumours had acquired their own momentum and even grew worse.

The two men were nervously surveying the cosmetic jars. Some were empty, their contents evaporated years before; some had leaked so they sat embedded in a tarry pool. Others remained good: glass flasks of almond oil, soapstone boxes of fine wax and fat, amethystine flagons of pomade, stoppered phials of antimony and extract of seaweed, alabaster pots of red ochre, ash and chalk. No place for a cook; rather an apothecary. Veronica would give three fingers to discover this little cave of treasures.

There were other containers, which Caenis had considered but carefully left untouched upon the shelves. Some ingredients could have no possible benign use and had convinced her it was true that Livia must have been in league with the famous poisoner Lucusta. She would keep that to herself.

Her elderly mistress was the most admired woman in Rome. The first lesson Diadumenus had drummed into Caenis was that she must avoid speaking to men who might be trying to manoeuvre themselves into a connection with Antonia. Daughter of Mark Antony and Octavia; Augustus’ niece and sister-in-law of Tiberius; mother of the renowned Germanicus; (mother too of the peculiar Claudius and the scandalous Livilla); grandmother of Caligula and Gemellus, who were to share the Empire one day . . . If a woman must be defined by her male relations, the lady Antonia had gathered some plums, even though Caenis privately found them a specked and mildewed crop. Afflicted with these famous men, Antonia was wise, courageous, and not quite worn out by the indignities she had seen. Even the Emperor took her seriously. Even her slavegirls might wield influence.

Though born a slave, Caenis was no skivvy. She had been singled out as bright, then given an education in office skills: reading, writing, ciphers and shorthand, discretion, deportment, graceful conversation in a pleasant voice. She had first-class Latin, and better than average Greek. She understood arithmetic and cheerfully grappled with accounts. She could even think, though she kept that to herself, since she did not choose to embarrass other people by showing she was superior. Only her morose adolescence had prevented her being placed in one of the imperial bureaux before this. They did not allow you into a bureau until they were sure you could deal firmly with senators.

She moved the pan off the brazier and stood up straight to deal with these men now. She had been thoroughly trained. Caenis could melt into backgrounds yet radiate efficiency. She always sat well, to help her handwriting. She stood without slouching; she walked with confidence; she spoke up clearly: she knew how to show uninvited senators to the door with relentless charm.

She liked this senator more than she expected. He seemed honest and well-intentioned. She let herself exclaim, ‘Well, everything’s relative, lord! A rich knight is more cheerful than a poor senator. To be poor but middle class is still better than being a commoner who hardly has the right to pick his nose in the public street. A slave at the Imperial Palace leads a softer life than the free boatman who lives in a flooded shack on the Tiber’s bank –’ Since they did not pull her up, she went on rashly, ‘The power of the Senate has become a delusion; Rome is ruled by the commander of the Praetorian Guard –’

To distract them, she rushed on, ‘As for me, I was born in a palace; I have warmth and music, easy work and opportunity to progress. Perhaps more freedom than a high-born Roman girl with a garnet in each ear who lives penned in her father’s house with nothing to do but be married off to some wealthy halfwit who spends all his time trying to escape her for intelligent conversation and unforced sexual favours – even perhaps if he’s not an absolute halfwit, some genuine affection – with the likes of Veronica and me!’

‘Mmm! This is good!’ Laughing now, he watched her while he munched. His grim face lost all its trouble suddenly. She had assumed anyone in a decent white toga dined daily on peacocks aswim in double sauces, yet he ate with the appetite of any starving scullion she knew. Perhaps all their ready money went on laundry bills for togas. ‘Give that fool a bit; he wants it really.’

Caenis eyed the senator. Once again she offered her knife; Sabinus gingerly lifted the food. His brother clapped his shoulder heavily so she caught the gleam of his gold equestrian ring. Then he admitted to Caenis, ‘His footman, as you say! I clear a path in the street, chase off bailiffs and unattractive women, guard his clothes like a dog at the baths – and I see he gets enough to eat.’

By now she found in his face the bright signal that he liked her. She knew the look; she had seen it in men who danced attendance on Veronica. Caenis shrank from it. She found life a burden already. The last thing she needed was fending off some overfriendly hopeful with a broad country accent and no money. ‘Let me give you directions, lords.’

For the first time his brother smiled at her. It was the tight, rueful smile of a man who understood constraints. She was too wise to smile back. Still chewing, he refused to move. Studying the floor, Caenis ate her own sausage from the knife point, slowly. It was decent pork forcemeat, flavoured with myrtle berries, peppercorns and pine nuts; she had tossed it on the heat in oil strewn with the good end of a leek.

‘Let me show you the way, lords,’ Caenis murmured, newly subdued as the sunlight of a different world filtered into the bleakness of her own. She led them into the corridor; they walked either side of her while she basked in their presence as she took them towards the public rooms.

Without answer she spun swiftly on the ball of her loosely slippered foot. She walked away as she had been taught: head up, spine straight, movement unhurried and disciplined. The grime and desolation imposed by her birth became irrelevant; she ignored her grey condition and was herself. She sensed that they had halted, expecting her to look back from the corner; she was afraid to turn, in case she saw them laugh at her.

He knew he should not attempt to see her again. Caenis had missed the significance, but he realised at once. It was like him; a swift assessment of the situation followed by his private decision long before any public act. He was due to leave Rome again, due to leave Italy in fact. But all through his long journey back to Thrace, and afterwards, Flavius Vespasianus still thought, What an interesting girl!

At dusk that same day, Caenis obeyed her instructions from Diadumenus, and went to check whether their mistress required her services. Washed and with her hair combed, she walked quietly, carrying a bound note tablet and her wooden stylus box.

The House of Livia lay adjacent to the Palace, convenient, yet still private when social distance was required. This was – in theory – the famous modest home which Augustus had ensured he kept. It had helped maintain the myth that despite the honours heaped upon him when he accepted the title of Emperor, he had remained an ordinary citizen: the first among equals, as a phrase wryly had it. In this house, it was said, his wife and daughter had worked at their looms to weave the Emperor’s garments as Roman women were traditionally supposed to do for their male relatives. Perhaps sometimes, when other matters did not detain them, Livia and Julia really did devote themselves to weaving. Not often enough, in Julia’s case. She had still found time to lead a life so debauched it earned her exile and infamy, then finally death by the sword.

Livia’s House, for the past two years since the venerable Empress died Antonia’s house alone, stood on the south-east corner of the Palatine Hill in an area where notable republicans had once owned houses. Augustus, who was born there, had bought out the other families and made this an exclusive domain of his own. His original private house had been demolished to make way for his great new Temple of Apollo in the Portico of the Danaids, so the Senate had presented him with a replacement next to the temple with magnificent rooms for entertaining. His wife, Livia, maintained her own modest (though exquisite) house behind the temple. So in effect they had the benefits of a private palace, while still pretending to live in a classically simple Roman home.

Antonia had lived here after she married Livia’s popular and heroic son Drusus. When she was widowed at only twenty-seven, she elected to remain in her mother-in-law’s house, keeping the room and the bed she had shared with her husband. By then the mother of three children herself, she had the right to avoid being placed in the charge of a guardian; living with Livia preserved her independence while avoiding scandal. It had also enabled her to refuse, for the rest of her life, to remarry. Rare among Roman women, Antonia made her independence permanent.

Livia’s House was set against the side of the hill. Means had been provided for secluded access from the administrative palace complex via underground tunnels. Caenis automatically took the covered route. That way she was unlikely to run into the Praetorian Guards. Their job was to protect the Emperor, but with Tiberius away and their commander, Sejanus, usurping all authority, they had become unendurable. Luckily few were on duty today and none in the underground passages.

She passed the two side branches, then darted down the final stretch, feeling safe. Not even the Guards would normally interfere with Antonia’s visitors. But if the mood took them, or if they had been drinking more than usual, they could still be dangerous to a slave. They were the arrogant élite, protected by the mere name of Sejanus, thugs who molested anyone they chose.

As for Sejanus, nobody could touch him. He had risen from the middle rank, a soldier whose ambition was notorious. A man of some charm, he had made himself the friend of the Emperor, who had few close associates otherwise. It was known, though never openly stated, that Sejanus had then become the lover of Livilla, Antonia’s daughter, while she was married to the Emperor’s son. It was even whispered that he and Livilla had conspired to murder her husband. Worse plots were almost certainly afoot. It was safest not to wonder what they were.

Shivering slightly, Caenis clanged the bell and waited for admittance, knowing the porter would probably be in holiday mood and slow to respond. Coming via the covered way had brought her to the back entrance near the garden, where the porter would be even lazier than at the main entrance near the Temple of Victory. She hated to stand outside a closed door expecting to be spied on by someone unseen and unheard within. Feeling exposed, she turned her back.

When Antonia’s steward had purchased Caenis from the main imperial training school, the process was so discreet it seemed more like an adoption than a business in which title transferred and money changed hands. Antonia herself probably knew nothing about it. The opportunity to work in this high position had not come easily and once achieved it did not automatically lead to full trust. Caenis easily outstripped the competition in basic secretarial tasks, but Antonia was wary of granting access to her private papers, and rightly so. The girl had remained on probation, little more than a copyist. Her first sign of acceptance was when Diadumenus left her on duty alone today. It marked a vital step forward, Caenis knew that. She was desperate to do well.

A muttering porter finally answered her summons and admitted her. Patiently enduring the delay, she was still revelling in her luck. Through the discreet portals of this comparatively modest house came Roman statesmen and foreign potentates, the scions of satellite countries – Judaea, Commagene, Thrace, Mauretania, Armenia, Parthia – and the eccentric or notorious members of Antonia’s own family. Influential Romans, those with a long-term eye on the future, enjoyed Antonia’s patronage. Since today was a festival, visitors might have been here this evening, though for once Caenis found the house unusually quiet.

Passing through the peristyle garden and down a short internal corridor she reached a roofed atrium with a black and white tiled floor at the centre of the formal suite. Opposite, a long flight of steps led down from the main door. To either side of her lay public rooms, a reception area and a dining room, both exquisitely decorated with high-quality wall paintings. The private suites and bedrooms lay beyond them and on upper floors, all much smaller rooms.

Her role was to present herself to the usher Maritimus, then if required for dictation she would attend on her mistress in one of the cubicles attached to the receiving room. Tonight Maritimus, who seemed flustered, left her in the receiving room; then for some reason she had to wait. She studied the fine fresco of Io, guarded by Argus, and apprehensively eyeing Mercury as he crept around a large rock to rescue her; he looked like the kind of curly-haired lad-about-town Io’s mother had probably warned her about.

Trying to calm herself, Caenis arranged her waxed note tablet and took out a stylus. Normally Diadumenus, as Chief Secretary, would be here to prevent her feeling so exposed. Still, she was familiar with the kind of correspondence required. Antonia owned and organised a vast array of personal property, including estates in Egypt and the East inherited from her father, Mark Antony. At her court she had brought up the princes from far-flung provinces who had been sent to Rome by shrewd royal fathers or simply carried off by the Romans as hostages, and many letters were still written to those who had since returned home. They held no terrors for an able scribe, although this would be the first time Caenis had worked unsupervised with Antonia.

‘I can do that.’ Caenis longed for authority. She enjoyed her new work. She took genuine pleasure in using her skills, and was fascinated by what she saw of Antonia’s correspondence. She accepted that she did not yet see it all. Even so, this sense of not being acceptable tonight grated on her. ‘Will you tell her I’m here?’

Now she was seeing the world and her-own place within it through fresh eyes. Working in a private house felt wonderful. She had already witnessed at close hand how Roman government was conducted. Like most family matters, it was based on short-term loyalties and long-term bad temper, pursued in an atmosphere of spite, greed and indigestion. Caenis had never had a family; she watched with delight.

Whatever had disturbed her mistress this particular evening, the young secretary already appreciated the background: the Emperor Tiberius, whose famous brother, Drusus, had been Antonia’s husband, spent the last years of his bitter reign in depraved exile on the island of Capri; it had come to be accepted in Rome that he would never return here again. He was already over seventy so the question of a successor was never far away.

Since Augustus had first based his political position upon his family ties with Julius Caesar, ruling Rome had become an inheritable right. Between genuine accidents and the grappling ambition of their fearsome womenfolk, most of the male heirs had gone to their graves. The Emperor’s own son, married to Antonia’s daughter Livilla, had died in rather odd circumstances eight years before. By default the choice now fell between Livilla’s son, Gemellus, and his cousin Caligula. A fine pair: Caligula, who when barely into his teens had seduced his own sister here in Antonia’s house, or Gemellus, who was deeply unpleasant and permanently sickly. But if Tiberius died in the near future Rome would be left to these two very young boys while immense power was also being wielded by Sejanus. Maybe Sejanus would prefer another solution.

Antonia was nearly seventy, though she still had the round face, soft features, wide-set eyes and sweet mouth that had made her a famous beauty. Her hair, thinning now, was parted centrally and taken back above her ears to the nape of her neck in a neat, traditional style. Her gown and stole were unobtrusively rich, her earrings and pendants heavy antiques – attributes of extreme wealth and power to which she paid no regard.

‘You are Caenis?’ The slavegirl nodded. The effect of her mistress’ assurance was to make her feel coarse and clumsy. ‘You are on duty alone? Well, something important has to be done. This cannot wait. We shall have to make the best of it.’ Her mistress gave her a hard look. A decision occurred. The slavegirl’s life took a sudden twist; for indecipherable reasons she was admitted to Antonia’s confidence.

Somehow Caenis detected from the first that whatever was to be written had already been thoroughly considered. She had often seen her mistress composing correspondence as she went along; this was different. Now Antonia led her briskly into one of the more private little side rooms then signalled her to a low stool, while she herself continued pacing about, barely able to wait until Caenis had her stylus poised. It was a strange reversal; in Rome the great were seated while their inferiors stood. Caenis had been trained to take shorthand normally while on her feet at the foot of a couch where the dictator reclined.

Speaking with pain and deliberation, Antonia dictated for Tiberius facts which she hated to acknowledge and which he would hate to hear. She had uncovered a great conspiracy. The sensational story would surprise few in Rome, although few would ever have voiced it, least of all to the Emperor. Here in this sheltered house Antonia’s realisation of it had been desperately slow to emerge, but those close to her had revealed the plot. She had not taken their word; she made her own investigations. Because of her privileged position she possessed the courage to inform Tiberius, and she supported all her accusations with telling detail. She did not spare even the parts which convicted her own daughter.

She told the Emperor how his friend the Praetorian commander Sejanus had been plotting to gain complete power. His feared position had ensured the allegiance of many senators and many of the imperial freedmen who governed the Empire; leading figures in the army had been bribed. Recent honours had been heaped upon Sejanus, increasing his own ambition and the control he wielded throughout Rome. He had moved in on the Imperial House by marrying one of his relatives, Aelia Paetina, to Antonia’s son Claudius, by betrothing his daughter to Claudius’ son (though the boy had died), and now after several attempts by persuading the Emperor to agree that he himself might marry Antonia’s daughter. But he had already seduced Livilla, then either poisoned her husband or persuaded her to do it, and schemed to ally himself by marriage to the Imperial House in order to legitimise his own position as a future emperor. His own ex-wife, recently divorced, was now prepared to speak as a witness against him.

The dictation completed, Caenis managed to keep her face expressionless. At a brusque nod from Antonia she fetched the necessary materials from her work basket and absorbed herself in the letter’s careful transcription to a scroll.

Pallas, Antonia’s most trusted slave, came into the room, dressed in a travelling cloak and clearly primed to collect the letter. Their mistress motioned him to wait in silence while Caenis completed her task. Newly confident, she copied her notes without mistakes, writing calmly and steadily even though her mouth felt dry and her cheeks flushed. What she was committing to ink and parchment could be a death warrant for all of them.

‘Do not let this fall into other hands,’ Antonia reminded him, obviously repeating previous instructions. ‘If you are stopped, say you are travelling to my estate at Bauli. Give the letter only into the Emperor’s own hands, then wait in case he wishes to question you.’

The messenger left. Pallas was not a type Caenis cared for. He was a Greek from Arcadia, visibly ambitious, whose appeal to Antonia struck her as incongruous. He went on his way with a jaunty step which seemed out of place. But perhaps his carefree manner would disguise the importance of his mission from soldiers and spies.

Caenis held the tablets above the flame of a lamp to soften the wax a little, then methodically drew the flat end of her stylus through each line of shorthand. Staring at the newly smoothed surface, she said in a low voice, ‘It is useless, madam. I would have erased the letter in any case, but every document you ever dictate to me remains in my mind.’

‘That will be fortunate for Rome! You will remain in this house,’ Antonia stated. ‘You may speak to no one until these matters are resolved. It is for the safety of Rome and the Emperor, for my safety – and for your own.’ Faint distaste coloured her voice: ‘Do you have male followers who will look for you?’

‘No, madam.’ Only that morning Caenis had encountered a man who might have troubled her thoughts for many long hours, but tonight had obliterated that. ‘I have one friend,’ she went on, matter-of-factly contributing to the discussion. ‘A garland-girl called Veronica. She may come asking about me, but if the door porter says I am working for you, madam, she will be satisfied.’ Veronica had never taken any interest in Caenis’ duties as a scribe.

Even if Pallas did reach Capri, from all Caenis had heard there must be a good chance that Tiberius would choose to reject what Antonia was telling him. He was moody and unpredictable, and nobody likes to hear they have been betrayed. Even if Antonia’s measured words convinced him, there might be nothing he could do: the Praetorian Guards held absolute power in Rome. Arresting their commander appeared to be impossible. They would defend Sejanus to the last.

For Caenis this was in many ways the most significant period of her life. It all seemed too easy. Everyone looked too happy to welcome her. Caenis, who distrusted smiles, felt off balance for some time.

Born and bred in the Palace, Caenis could have no country and no relations of her own; she was one of ‘Caesar’s family’ but that title just made her imperial property. In some ways it had been good luck. It had spared her the indignity of standing naked in the market-place shackled among Africans, Syrians and Gauls, with notes of her good character and health hung around her neck while casual eyes derided her and rough hands pinched her breasts or forced between-her thighs. She had escaped long-term insecurity, real filth, savage cruelty, regular sexual abuse. She understood that; she was grateful up to a point.

Of her father she knew nothing; of her mother only that she must have been a slave too. Caenis had presumably stayed with her mother while she was very small; sometimes a smear of memory would catch her on that threshold between waking and shallow sleep. Before she was committed to the nursery where bright brats were taught to write, her mother had pierced her ears even though all she had to hang there were pebbles on rags of string. She must have supposed her daughter was then ready to receive orbs of gold from susceptible men. There was always that foolish presumption that a slavegirl must look pretty. Caenis never had been; she knew her cleverness was the better bargain, but it made her sad all the same.

She had been clever from the start. As a child frighteningly so. She learnt to disguise it, to escape spite in the infants’ dormitory, then later to use it so a usefully vibrant girl like Veronica would want to be her friend. Though a solitary child, she understood that she needed other people. As she grew older her resentments had dulled, so she neither tormented herself nor worried the overseers by appearing rebellious. But she possessed a keen drive to achieve the best she could.

That was why working for Antonia was so important. Encouraged by the new confidence now placed in her, Caenis began to acquit herself outstandingly. Having once caught Antonia’s notice, every opportunity was hers. Straight-backed and calm, she worked as if nothing significant had happened – winning further trust from her mistress for her restrained reaction to events.

Diadumenus, who must have been told what had happened, showed occasional signs of jealousy. He was still Chief Secretary, but Caenis had a special quality to offer. She was a woman, and Antonia at seventy was short of female companionship. Her lady wanted neither a chit she could bully nor a monster who would try to bully her. Antonia needed someone with good sense; someone she could talk to; someone she could trust absolutely. She had found all that, though she did not yet know Caenis well enough to admit it. But they had shared an act of bravado (and of tragedy too, for. Antonia had condemned her own daughter). They were now locked in a secret, awaiting the outcome. And if Sejanus discovered that Antonia had denounced him, there would be fatal results for both mistress and slave.

Life went on. An appearance of normality was crucial. Visitors came and went. For secrecy’s sake Caenis was forbidden to approach them, but since she was tied to the house she was volunteering for any work she could. This included keeping a diary of visitors. Caenis was a secretary who could remain virtually invisible – while thoroughly inspecting all the persons whose names featured on her lists.

Among Antonia’s private friends were wealthy men of consular rank such as Lucius Vitellius and Valerius Asiaticus, who sometimes brought clients of their own. Caenis soon spotted among the names of Vitellius’ escort that of Flavius Sabinus, one of the two young men she had directed at the Palace. He currently held the citic post of aedile so he qualified for an introduction here, although actually gaining admittance had required the patronage of a much more senior senator. This unofficial court circle could be a good place for impoverished new men from the provincial middle class to acquire influence. Here they would be meeting Caligula and Gemellus, the heirs to the Empire. They would mingle with ambassadors. They could even, if they wanted to risk ridicule, make the acquaintance of Claudius, Antonia’s surviving son, who because of various disabilities took no part in public life.

The brothers came from Reate; Caenis burrowed it out. Reate was a small town in the Sabine hills – a birthplace Roman snobs would mock. Their family arranged contracts for seasonal labour and had made their money in provincial tax collection. Their father had also been a banker. They would be notables in their own country, though in Rome, amongst senatorial pedigrees that trailed back to the Golden Age, they must be struggling. Since Sabinus had qualified for the Senate the family must own estates worth at least a million sesterces, but it was obviously new money and if it were all tied up in the land she could well believe their day-to-day budget was tight.

By nightfall word had run through the household notwithstanding, and the next day the results of Antonia’s action became known throughout Rome: to sidestep the Praetorian Guards, the Emperor had called into his confidence past and present commanders of the city police force. One, Macro, had been secretly appointed as the new commander of the Praetorians. He entered Rome incognito and laid plans with Laco, the current Prefect of the Vigiles. After taking elaborate precautions, Macro had persuaded Sejanus to enter the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine where the Senate were meeting – only a few yards from Antonia’s house. A letter from the Emperor to the Senate was to be read. Sejanus let himself be persuaded that this would be offering even greater honours to himself.

MARCUS DIDIUS FALCO: CURRICULUM VITAE