I. BLACK MONEY
Though spring had left months ago and the heat of summer was deeply set into the buildings of the city, what should have been a time of merriment and optimism, also in the countryside beyond, was anything but. A sense of doom and despair clung determinedly to the hopes of all like a stubborn odour, the happiness of harvests and festivals a distant dream. Rome was in the midst of a plague. It had ravaged the city and touched every doorway, giving no quarter to status, though, in truth, the citizens of the Subura fared poorly compared to the patricians and their enclaves on the hills. Believing the cause to be related to the worsening problem of detritus in the suburbs, despite a sewer system that was the envy of the world, emergency legislation had entered the Senate. It had been too little too late, the malevolent presence lingering in the city even now.

So it was, with increasing agitation at the circumstances of his presence in the Tullianum, that the prefect of the Praetorian reviewed the list of prisoners due for judgement. It was not his job, but the plague had left him no option, most of his officers having succumbed to illness and being bedridden or worse. As he did so, the guard in his thick woollen clothing and dirty leather apron waited dispassionately in the doorway, a ring of keys clutched possessively in his grimy hands.

Naevius Macro was seated in a room on the upper floor, barely able to read the large scroll of paper laid flat across the desk, the signature and seal awaiting his sanction. Built in ages past, it was cool despite the heat of summer, its forbidding appearance both within and without in stark contrast to the complex of more modern and official buildings of the Tabularium. As the state prison, it sat on the Capitoline Hill, fittingly located near the law courts of the Forum. He hated having to visit prisons at the best of times, albeit as head of the Praetorian he was no stranger to it. Even here, at the top of the building, the effluvium of human wretchedness permeated the air like invisible smoke, stinging his throat. It was beneath him. At least, he considered euphemistically, it was not a problem he would have to endure for long. Not if she would aid him towards his ambition.

‘Are the prisoners for sentencing above ground?’ asked Naevius.
‘Yes, Tribune,’ came an apathetic reply, impervious to the man whom he addressed.

Had Naevius the time, he would have taken great pleasure in punishing the guard for the impudence of his tone, but he was in a hurry to be away and at his appointed meeting, for which he was now at risk of being late. She was not a patient woman, and though he had her favour and in many ways outranked her, it would not do to keep her waiting.