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  There was enough light in the morning sky when he arrived at the gate to show his smiling features. Joe took out his warrant and prepared to explain who he was, only to be cut short by the porter. “That’s quite all right, Commissioner. We thought you’d be back. The library, sir? Classics collection? Yes, of course. I’ll send a boy with you. Here’s Sam just on his way to the kitchens. He’ll do. Hey, Sam!” The only suggestion that this was a ridiculous hour to be invading the library was a mild, “Well, at least you’ll have the place to yourself, sir!”

  He followed the bleary-eyed buttery boy down cold corridors and across two quadrangles where a sudden flare of red Virginia creeper enlivened the grey stone. At the end of a colonnade, they climbed a staircase leading to a surprisingly large and airy east-facing room. All the walls were lined with bookshelves, and further stacks projected into the room at right angles, providing secluded spaces with tables and chairs for the comfort of readers. After taking a moment to get his bearings in the silent space, Joe spotted a well-stocked classics section and headed towards it. He ran his eyes along the shelves packed with familiar Greek and Roman writers but failed to find what he was looking for. Had he been grumbling his frustration aloud? A voice from the adjoining section made it clear that he had. “May I be of some help?” the dry and cultured voice wanted to know.

  “Terribly sorry!” Joe said, darting around the stack. “Forgive me, sir—I thought I was alone.”

  “Never a wise assumption in St. Benedict’s,” the old man said. “Tell me why you’re startling the Ancients with your very modern vocabulary.”

  “I’m looking for something on the Roman Emperor Pertinax, who died in the year 193. I thought perhaps Edward Gibbon might point me in the right direction, but I can’t find him.”

  The figure was alarmingly ghost-like, an apparition from the medieval age. Paper-thin skin blotched with brown and a monastic fringe of grey hair were framed by the bunched black gown he wore about his shoulders like a stole to keep out the draughts but the eyes twinkling over the top of a pair of half-moon spectacles gave out a ray of warm humour. “Ah! Thinking of writing a volume yourself are you? An excellent thought! I’ve often had the same one myself. Always rejected it on the grounds of overstimulation! Too exciting a subject for a man in his eighth decade. Cool scholarship and Gibbon’s prose are what I was brought up on. To launch into an account of the year of the six emperors would have the effect of feeding a life-long vegetarian a rare sirloin steak. No stomach for it. Death and vice are much better left to the younger generation. Is that what you’re after, young man? Murder, greed and lechery?”

  For a moment Joe was robbed of words. Transfixed by the quizzical eyes, he felt he was undergoing the last stage of an oral examination. “Yes. I confess: exactly that. And treachery. You may add treachery to your list, sir.”

  The stranger nodded, seemingly pleased to receive a direct answer. “Then you’ve hit on a fruitful, if neglected, period in Roman history.” He peered more closely at Joe. “I say, young man . . . you’re not one of these historical novelist chappies are you? Latter-day John Buchan? All flash and bang, sword and dagger, heads on pikes?”

  “Not at all, sir! I’m a guest of the college doing a bit of personal research into a character who interests me. An elusive chap! And no one here is coming forward to help me with my enquiries.” Joe grinned and extended a hand. “I’m an assistant commissioner of police at Scotland Yard. Joseph Sandilands, sir.”

  “Professor Deerbolt. Hubert Deerbolt. How do you do?”

  The hand that took his was as fragile and as brown as an autumn beech leaf, and Joe was afraid it might crunch to dust in his own strong fingers.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Commissioner. If it’s unsolved crime you’re after, there’s no shortage on these shelves, but unfortunately you come two millennia too late. And you’ve got the wrong man in your sights. Why Pertinax? His predecessor, the evil young menace Commodus, committed crimes so foul even a Scotland Yarder could not envision them. His successor, Didius Julianus, was a corrupt killer who bought himself the Empire and indulged in human sacrifice. Much more interesting to a policeman, I’d have thought. Or a psychiatrist. You’re looking in the wrong place, what’s more. You’re amongst the poets. History is in this alcove over here. Gibbon chapter four should come up with the evidence. But why not get it straight from the horse’s mouth? Always go for the primary source first, my boy! Put Dio Cassius in the witness box! Do you read Greek?”

  “No, not well enough.”

  “Then take this copy.” The old scholar struggled to his feet, shuffled over to a bookshelf and, with unerring aim, prised a leather-covered book from a row of similar volumes. “Book seventy-four. Dio Cassius was a Roman but, like well-educated men of his day, he chose to write his history in Greek. You’ll find the original text on the left, English on the right. The author was a contemporary of Pertinax. Knew him well. An admirer. A senator and an entertaining writer of history. Strong meat for some—I warn you.”

  “Admired by Dio Cassius, did you say? And Edward Gibbon?” Joe was taken aback. “I was picturing one of the series of bloodletting, perverted maniacs who held Rome at the point of a sword.”

  “Nothing of the kind. Pertinax was described as ‘an excellent prince’ by no less an authority than David Hume.” He looked at Joe, waiting for a reaction to his mention of a Scottish philosopher of the eighteenth century. Testing.

  Academics! Game players! Joe knew he was bound to lose the traditional sparring with this intimidating old man, but he would play the game to the end in good spirit. “Then I’m convinced, Professor. Any friend of Hume’s is a friend of mine!” he replied lightly. “Though we must take heed when he also warns us that, ‘A wise man proportions his belief to the evidence.’ I have that in poker work above my desk. You see me ready to adjust my belief if you can only present me with evidence.”

  Deerbolt smiled with satisfaction. “Then you will enjoy Dio. Dio clearly loved Pertinax and much regretted his early demise. Even the people of Rome publicly demonstrated their sorrow at his death. A dangerous thing to do—many were butchered by the soldiery on the orders of his successor. Gibbon says of him, ‘He distinguished himself by the firmness, the prudence, the integrity of his conduct.’ All accounts considered and at a distance of seventeen centuries, I judge Pertinax to have been Rome’s last chance to survive and thrive and perhaps to save the known world from the worst excesses of the Dark Ages that followed. Europe would have been a different and better place had he lived long enough to consolidate the state, weed out the corrupt elements and bring the military to heel.”

  Catching Joe’s look of disbelief, he shook his head and pressed on: “Think about it for a moment, young man! A strong Rome at that time would have made a recall of the Roman army from Britain unnecessary. The Roman influence in our islands would have strengthened. Their civilisation, which has left imprint enough, would have left an even stronger stamp, and we might well have been speaking a form of Italian now, with a continental view of the world rather than the insular one we have affected.”

  “You must excuse my unwillingness to accept this, Professor—I’m what the Romans would have judged a hyperborean, some rough moss-trooper from beyond the known world, safer kept on the far side of a dirty great wall.”

  The old man smiled. “A Scotsman. I had guessed as much. Though, in the tradition of Empire, the centre draws in talent from the fringes, and I observe that you have adopted the language and habits of the capital. Your bearing and profession, to say nothing of your battle scars, mark you out as a member of the Praetorian élite. Your figure and countenance would look convincing under a red-crested helmet and a silver breastplate. The Praetorian Guard were the Metropolitan Policemen of their day—were you aware that they had a special section they called the ‘speculatores,’ a unit given over to spying and clandestine operations?” He gave Joe a sidelong assessment.
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  “They’re still with us, your speculatores! We call them the Special Branch.” Joe grinned, entertained by the comparison. “And I’m glad to say they report to me.”

  “Use your power carefully, Commissioner!”

  “The very reason I’m here, sir, speculatively pursuing Pertinax.”

  “Ah, yes. Pertinax. Your quarry was emperor for three months only and yet he had overhauled the tax system, halved the price of bread, righted a multitude of wrongs and begun to refill the empty coffers left by his dissolute predecessor, when he met his death at the hands of elements of the Praetorian Guard. This spoiled, licentious crew who held the office of emperor in their hands were demanding more and yet more pay and favours from a bankrupt city. Pertinax made them as fair an offer as the straightened times would allow.”

  Joe found he didn’t want Deerbolt to tell him more. He was developing a fellow feeling for the crusty army veteran who appeared to have felt more concern for the state than for his own safety, but an ignominious death was on the cards and the professor was determined to tell the tale with full storytelling glee.

  “It wasn’t enough! A group of three hundred guards stormed the palace and—whereas any other emperor would have locked the doors, called up his body guard or slipped out the back way, the brave, old warrior went out boldly to face them down, armed only with words. He was sure they would respond to reason when they heard it. He very nearly talked them round. They put their swords back in their scabbards and looked at their boots. With the exception of one soldier.

  “This arrogant fool, who knew not what he did, lunged towards the emperor and delivered a lethal sword thrust with the words, ‘Take this from the army.’ They cut off his head, stuck it on the end of a lance and paraded it about the city to the horror of the people. From that moment, Rome was lost.”

  “I had no idea!” Joe confessed. “Where did he spring from, this good Roman?”

  “Come with me and have a look at that map,” the old man invited. Joe put a steadying hand under his arm as he crossed the room and they went to stand, master and pupil, in front of a map of Europe extending from the Arctic to the north coast of Africa, from the Caucasus Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. In the centre was the boot of Italy symbolically stamping its heel into what, on this map, appeared as Mare Nostrum. Our Sea. In the centre of the boot was a large black blob labelled: Roma. This was the known world of the Romans, and the various countries clustering about the blue expanse of the Mediterranean bore their Latin names. Instinctively, Joe’s eyes went north to locate his own birthplace. The land of the “Caledonii,” according to this view of the world.

  A quivering hand drew his attention to northern Italy. “Publius Helvius Pertinax was born in Alba Pompeia in Northwest Italy. Humble origins—slave family. His father was a freed man who paid to educate his son well. The boy was talented and after some years teaching grammar he broke out and entered the military. He rose quickly through the ranks thanks to his ability, his engaging character and—not least—his influential patronage. Now let’s take a look at the extent of his sphere of influence . . .” The hand wafted north and west to Britain. “He served on the Wall, indeed, he became governor of Britannia.” The hand circled round to the east. “Procurator of Dacia and the eastern provinces along the Danube . . . Down to Syria, which he also governed. And to the southerly shores of the Mediterranean, where he became proconsul of Africa.”

  The hand repeated the circle with a conductor’s flourish. “So, it was a man of courage, intellect and experience encompassing the whole of the known world who, well into his sixties, returned finally to Rome. To Rome where he hoped to enjoy a useful retirement serving in his senatorial capacity.” The old man smiled. “A sort of easy spell lolling on the red leather benches of the House of Lords, you might say. But he was to be disappointed. The senatorial benches were an uncomfortable and dangerous place to sit! Commodus had conceived a hatred for the senators, who were powerless to restrain him in his excesses. One by one, the most vocal of the emperor’s critics were being assassinated. And Pertinax was an avowed critic. When Commodus was finally strangled to death in his swimming pool by an athletic young man on his own staff, a contingent of the guards climbed into their armour and set out for Pertinax’s house before news of the emperor’s death got about. It was, not unreasonably, assumed that they had come to kill him on the orders of Commodus. When this fearsome crew stormed in, Pertinax prepared to die. Instead of death the Praetorians offered him the Empire. The very same outfit that snatched it back from him three months later. He was handed the task of rebuilding a bankrupt, lawless and ungovernable hellhole. A Hercules would have balked at the task and Pertinax was no demigod—he was a tired old man with bad feet.”

  They fell silent, taking in the huge size of the world that Pertinax had marched around, known and governed.

  “But he so nearly pulled it off,” Joe murmured. “The son of a slave rose to be master of the Western world. Can there be a message here?”

  He had been speaking to himself, but Deerbolt answered. “For our own time, do you mean?” He shuddered. “Undoubtedly. What do you see when you look at today’s Europe? A rotten, worm-eaten apple! Countries in turmoil, peoples on the move, borders redrawn and disputed, poverty and debt everywhere. Dissolute tyrants who feed on this decay are growing strong. They are recruiting masterless men to their cause. They welcome the poor and disaffected along with the rich and mischief-making. Europe is beginning to march to the tune they have chosen and the tune is a martial one.” Deerbolt sighed, then with a grimace that managed to combine despair and humour said, “I say, Commissioner, do you happen to know a sixty-year-old soldier with bad feet?”

  Joe replied with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I can’t answer for the feet, but I know a sixty-year-old soldier with a dislocated shoulder. He also has courage, intellect, foresight and a certain gruff eloquence. Not much use to anyone at the moment, I’m afraid—he’s been run down by a New York taxi and he’s recuperating. And you must look elsewhere for someone to tap him on the shoulder and invite him to leave the red leather benches—the gift of Empire does not rest in my hands. The Praetorian Guard serves the people these days, sir.”

  “Mmm . . . the many are governed by the few with surprising ease, as you know. But who chooses the few? Too often they are self-selected. The people do not know them. The guards have fallen asleep. Time to change the guard and bark an order, Sandilands. What do you say?”

  Deerbolt turned to face Joe with a playful smile. He retrieved a fold of his dusty old gown and flung it back over his shoulder with a gesture that turned it into a senatorial toga. He raised his right arm, palm down in an ironic sketch of a Roman salute. “Custos novus!” he snapped. “Ad signa!”

  There was only one possible response from a new guard called upon to fall in and rally to the standard. “Ad victoriam!” Joe said, returning the salute.

  Chapter 17

  “Your continent needs you!”

  Did Sir Gregory Pertinax think the continent of Europe needed him? Had he seen the imperious finger pointing at him? Or had his father and grandfather, sensitive to shallow roots in a condescending society that was prepared to be impressed by their cash but not their birth, prepared him all his life for an assumption of power of some sort? Political? Military? Joe had no idea. At what moment would he make his strike? In years or in weeks?

  Of one thing Joe was certain now—the name was badly chosen. He could imagine David Hume’s pithy summary of the character of the present-day, would-be emperor. It did not amount to “an excellent prince.” No honest warrior with the good of his country at heart (whichever country he chose to support) would go about establishing power by covert and immoral means. Or would he? Joe forced himself constantly to question his own judgement, lit as it often was by the warm glow of patriotism. But did the honest warrior exist? Had he ever existed? Joe’s mental list registered Cincinnatus, King Alfre
d, the Duke of Wellington, George Washington and ran out. Though he recognised that every man was a hero or a potential hero in his own estimation.

  The professor had been intrigued by Joe’s quest but not deceived. In the quiet of the academic backwater, Joe had let his guard down so far as to enquire into what was a well-known name hereabouts. Had the connection been made between the names? Of course it had. A policeman of his rank enquiring into the provenance of a local nabob would have sounded the alarm bell. The shrewd old bird, working comfortably within the framework of history and philosophy, had warned Joe and roused him to action. To use his imagery—the old guards had fallen asleep on duty and a potential tyrant was even now stepping over the snoring heaps to seize power with the connivance of his faction—willing or coerced. No need for crude measures, as with Guy Fawkes and his gang, who’d laid down barrels of gunpowder under Parliament, literally to blast their way to power. No, no. Simply drug the guard, disarm your opponent, suborn the senators, and be sure of where you were going, and the rotten state would fall at your feet. In the upcoming elections, Joe had no doubt that the name of Pertinax would feature on the ballot papers. After his election it would be a short step to seizing the reins of power. Manufacture an emergency, a national threat of some sort, put yourself in charge of a war cabinet and the state was yours. It had worked for Oliver Cromwell nearly three hundred years before. The people had thanked the Lord for, at last, a strong leader and had overlooked the uncomfortable fact that he had signed their king’s death warrant.

  Joe hoped his thoughts were wild and ridiculous. But then he was struck by an even more alarming speculation: How far and how wide did his support extend? All the way to the Baltic? Over the border into Russia? The Roman map came back to mind. The islands of Britain were a wondrous foothold in Europe. Geographically they stood, the cockpit of the continent, insular, defiant and disdainful. When visibility was poor over the English Channel, The Times had been known to declare: fog over channel. continent cut off. Its navy, harboured in ports from which the world’s oceans were instantly accessible in all seasons, was unsurpassed. Recently victorious over Germany—its only competitor in Europe—Britain remained, in spite of its current poverty, a politically powerful plum which, if offered up to the Bolshevik Empire (as an ally?), could furnish the new and untested potentate in those northern realms, Joseph Stalin, with the keys to a continent. He would be able to consider himself the Lord of the World, challenger to the increasing might of the United States. Frowning down over Europe from the vastness of his northern lands, opened up to the Atlantic and the west by a compliant Britain, his multitudes could sweep down unopposed through central Asia to the east and take over India as the British had long feared was their intention.