A Capitol Death Read online

  I was facing the river side, though to reach any of the steps down I would have to cross over, either down in the Asylum or in front of Juno Moneta. Neither was attractive but I stayed up on the heights. It felt exposed. Unhappily, I made my way across to outside the Temple of Juno, where I crouched by the big outdoor altar, hoping I was out of sight as I listened for sounds of pursuit.

  Now in the intimate darkness I knew the Triumph was starting.

  I could sense it as I heard new movement far below. Large crowds had assembled, down on the Via Flaminia, especially around the Triumphal Arch. Before the Triumph began they had nothing to do but stand around. It would be chaos in the processional streets. Several hundred senators, all mature, some ancient, had to be brought out from the city centre to the Temple of Isis where Domitian had spent the night in sleep and prayer. He would be offered a substantial breakfast, though in his mean-spirited way he was a modest eater. Hylus would dress him in those glorious robes.

  The characters I had interviewed at the Diribitorium would be witnessing the success of their labours. Quartilla and her staff, the painters Successus and Spurius. Lalus would be creeping close to the chariot, anxiously in attendance with a touch-up pot of liquid gold. The Whites would bring their four beautiful horses.

  Below on the Campus Martius, they would soon have their triumph with all its seediness, fakery and making-do. The spectators would mock but accept it, even the furniture they knew had been foraged from imperial houses and the reused old props. The wild day was beginning. Braggart soldiers, sordid crowds, knockabout actors and musicians, tiring noise, smells, then the self-satisfied man in his chariot. Tiberius saw this as a massive fraud. Its honorand and his audience would not be complaining.

  I stood up now, beside the altar, planning to make a move. For the senators’ walk to greet Domitian’s return, flustered soldiers would be opening a tunnel through the human mass that clogged the road, forcing a highly élite rat-run, down which the purple-bordered togas could make their stately waddle. Down there, where Tiberius should be, I thought I could make out pinpoints of light: torches so they should not stumble, imperceptibly progressing. It was like when you stare at stars and cannot decode whether or not they are moving. The first ranks were neat, the rest straggled. These were self-satisfied men who held opinions; they had no truck with formation marching. Thinking of Tiberius among them, I suppressed a sob.

  My brief respite was over. I would never escape Nestor. I heard him. Once I knew where he was, I even thought I could see him. Somehow, despite the decoy I arranged, he had managed to come out of the Tabularium, then passed me, lower down the Saddle. Bulky, determined and murderous, he would block my way to the Hundred Steps. What was the point of being so near to Heaven, if the gods were lying on their couches, sated by a night of screwing their sisters, turning nymphs into trees, blowing up storms to destroy innocent sailors? Wake up, you degenerate crew: a desperate woman needs divine intervention!

  No luck. Nobody to help. I must still use my own resources.

  I turned back on myself, now planning to descend on the Gemonian Stairs. If Genialis had returned to his jail, I could seek refuge.

  Perhaps I kicked a stone inadvertently. Perhaps instinct was working for him. I heard Nestor shout insults, his voice seeming much nearer than I had hoped. He must be directly following me again. There was only one thing left for me. The gods had taken no notice. Nobody else knew I was up here. Forget the gods, I was at my limit. Soon I would no longer have strength to run. I could no longer save myself. I needed to attract attention—and I thought of the only way that was certain to do it.

  Gasping for breath so much it hurt, I struggled to where I could just make out a line of cages. For security, their fastenings were intricate, but I knew how to work them. Keys were never used because this was a sacred area. When I began rattling metalwork, I heard soft cooing. The Capitol’s guardians did not want to leave their beds, but one by one I pulled them out. They knew me of old, so I had to be rough with them.

  “Get going!” I pleaded, whispering in case Nestor heard me. “All that pampering isn’t so you can walk about, shitting on grass and pecking people. Do your job, geese!” Puzzled, they huddled together. I threw my last dice, the loaded one. Imitating the cutest possible small child, I squealed at them the words they hated: “Nice birdies!”

  And so I set them off. Running around the sanctum in search of infants to threaten, the big white creatures Rome had honoured for centuries now remembered what they were famous for. Those wonderful birds did it for me. Flapping their wings with heavy beats and honking their hearts out in hideous cacophony, the Sacred Geese of Juno raised the alarm.

  * * *

  It was too late. There was no time for help to come. While I had been freeing the birds from Falco’s cages, the Praetorian had crept up on me. He rushed me, then, with a grunt of exultation, pinned me in a suffocating grasp. Immediately he began trying to drag me across the Auguraculum. It was now too light to see the stars, though too dark for flights of birds. The ground was rough, but Nestor in his military boots never stumbled.

  I fought him. I fought him like the street child I had once been in Londinium. I had a good life now: I was not ready to relinquish that. But he was bigger and much stronger so I knew what he was going to do. He forced me all the way across, heading for the edge of the clifftop …

  Then an excited gander came out of nowhere; flying low, it crashed into him. Nestor flung up an arm to protect his face. I bit the other arm hard, twisted, kneed him viciously in his unprotected privates. He lost his hold.

  We had broken apart, though it could not last. I had no energy. He knew it. I was finished. “Just one thing.” I played for time pathetically. “Why didn’t you use your sword to kill Lemni?”

  He scoffed, deluded into believing I could not appreciate his forethought and finesse. “Only the guards carry weapons in Rome. That would have pointed straight at me!”

  He carried no sword now, yet he would manage. He started his last move towards me. Brother of Gabinus, killer of Lemni, his only chance to avoid his own fate was to destroy me.

  A shadow moved behind him. Someone came fast towards us across the Auguraculum. I remembered the voice I heard shouting by the Porta Pandana. I guessed this was that man. At the last moment, Nestor knew what was happening though he had no chance to react. He may have been taught how, when the geese signalled where the danger was, Manlius Capitolinus had burst on the scene and hurled the first Gaul off the battlements. Every Roman has heard that story.

  No word was said. Only a man came out of the darkness, running hard. Full of wrath against the threat to me, my own Manlius threw the Praetorian off the Tarpeian Rock.

  LXIV

  Stand near the edge. Distract or overpower your victim, then a sudden big shove. Step away quickly …

  Until then I never knew he had the courage, never thought he had such strength. Once it was over, I felt no surprise. I knew him and loved him. I knew how much he loved me.

  We stood in the Auguraculum together, recovering, locked in each other’s arms. “Caius Policius Bibulus, in recognition of his worth and valour by decree of the Senate and People, the site for a tomb for him and his descendants has been given at public expense…”

  “Who the heck is Bibulus?”

  “An aedile who earned the right to be buried inside Rome. He must have been like you. Nobility comes with the job.”

  “Daft woman,” Tiberius said comfortingly, as I wiped my tears. If he ever died before me, I would pay for an enormous tomb and a huge plaque citing valour and worth. If I could not afford it, maybe the Gold faction would acknowledge his support by chipping in.

  We heard people approaching.

  Someone would have to round up a flock of agitated geese. The body could be left to rot, moved among the others on the Gemonian Stairs, just one more fake captive given up to the gods in the Triumph.

  As for us, we had solved the puzzle. A report would be written
, if anybody cared any longer. Over on the Aventine, the plebeian hill, we had our house: new staff, new dog, new décor, happy new lives together. Family would join us there tonight. It was our private retreat, where we could quietly be apart from any commotion that engulfed the rest of Rome.

  Dawn broke. The procession had slowly started moving. It was not for us because Tiberius and I had better plans. We were going home.

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  The Course of Honour

  Rebels and Traitors

  Master and God

  A Cruel Fate

  THE FALCO SERIES

  The Silver Pigs

  Shadows in Bronze

  Venus in Copper

  The Iron Hand of Mars

  Poseidon’s Gold

  Last Act in Palmyra

  Time to Depart

  A Dying Light in Corduba

  Three Hands in the Fountain

  Two for the Lions

  One Virgin too Many

  Ode to a Banker

  A Body in the Bath House

  The Jupiter Myth

  The Accusers

  Scandal Takes a Holiday

  See Delphi and Die

  Saturnalia

  Alexandria

  Nemesis

  THE FLAVIA ALBIA SERIES

  The Ides of April

  Enemies at Home

  Deadly Election

  The Graveyard of the Hesperides

  The Third Nero

  Pandora’s Boy

  The Spook Who Spoke Again

  Vesuvius by Night

  Invitation to Die

  Falco: The Official Companion

  About the Author

  LINDSEY DAVIS is the author of the New York Times bestselling series of historical mysteries featuring Marcus Didius Falco, which started with The Silver Pigs, and the mysteries featuring Falco’s daughter, Flavia Albia, which started with The Ides of April. She has also authored a few acclaimed historical novels, including The Course of Honour. She lives in Birmingham, England.

  Visit the author’s website at www.lindseydavis.co.uk, or sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Map

  Characters

  Epigraphs

  Rome: The Capitoline Hill, November AD 89

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Chapter LV

  Chapter LVI

  Chapter LVII

  Chapter LVIII

  Chapter LIX

  Chapter LX

  Chapter LXI

  Chapter LXII

  Chapter LXIII

  Chapter LXIV

  Also by Lindsey Davis

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

  A CAPITOL DEATH. Copyright © 2019 by Lindsey Davis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by Rowen Davis and David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover photograph: woman © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel

  Cover photo-illustration: Anthony Hearsey

  Map by Rodney Paull

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-15270-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-15271-8 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781250152718

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].

  Originally published in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton, an Hachette UK Company

  First U.S. Edition: July 2019