The secretary smiled and reached for his pen and wax tablet. ‘No problem there, sir,’ he said. ‘Not if the gentleman in question is dead. I don’t think we need even bother the emperor.’
‘Hey, that’s great!’ I said, and I meant it. Perilla would be grateful the thing had been settled so quickly; and a grateful Perilla, given Uncle Cotta’s PS, might be interesting.
‘Now, if I may just have a few details?’ The secretary held his pen poised. ‘Your client’s name?’
‘Rufia Perilla.’
The tip of the pen moved over the wax. ‘And the deceased is presumably one Rufius?’
‘Actually, no. He was the lady’s stepfather. His name was Naso. Publius Ovidius Naso.’
The guy stopped writing like he’d been stung.
‘Ovid the poet?’ he said sharply. ‘The...gentleman who was exiled to Tomi?’ The smarmy look was gone like it’d been wiped off his face with a sponge. I felt the first little prickle of unease.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said. ‘He died last winter.’
The secretary laid the tablet down carefully. ‘Excuse me a moment, sir.’
‘Sure.’ I was speaking to his back. He’d already disappeared through the curtained archway behind the desk.
I turned round and tried to look more at ease than I felt. The room wasn’t exactly full, but there were several people waiting behind me; two or three antediluvian senators and a clutch of fat businessmen sitting on benches or chatting in groups.
Or rather they had been chatting. Not any longer. It was so quiet now you could’ve heard a mouse fart, and the way no one was looking in my direction was positively miraculous. The prickle of unease became a full-blown itch. I leaned backwards against the secretary’s desk and began to whistle through my teeth. One of the senators – he must’ve been eighty, at least, with the physique of a rat-chewed Egyptian mummy – suddenly swallowed his spittle the wrong way and choked. I watched with interest as his friends – mummies all, and only slightly less decrepit – pounded him senseless. I was laying private bets with myself which bit of him would fall off first when someone else coughed behind me, and the secretary was back.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but it is felt that your client’s request cannot be at present acceded to.’
‘You mean you won’t do it?’
‘Precisely, sir.’
There was something not right here. The guy was sweating. And imperial secretaries never sweat.
‘Hey what is this?’ I said. ‘You said there’d be no problem.’ When in doubt go for the jugular.
Not a muscle of his face moved. ‘I was mistaken, sir. I’m sorry, but it simply isn’t possible.’
‘Look.’ I was beginning to get annoyed. ‘The guy’s dead and burned. All I want is his ashes.’
‘I know that, sir, but my instructions are –’
‘Screw your instructions. I demand to see the emperor.’
I expected that to produce a result, if anything did. I had the right to a personal interview, of course: Tiberius might be a morose antisocial bugger, but he knew the power of the aristocracy. You don’t mess with the cream unless you’re really anxious for trouble. You can find yourself standing alone in a corner at parties, for starters.
‘I don’t think an interview with the First Citizen would be very productive, sir,’ the secretary said smoothly. ‘I assure you that –’
‘Listen, sunshine.’ I’d had enough of this. I wound my fingers into the neck of the man’s tunic and pulled him gently towards me. ‘I’m not asking your advice or your opinion. I’m telling you. My name’s Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, I’m a full-blown twenty-one-carat noble with a pedigree four times the length of your dick, and if you don’t make the appointment forthwith I’ll lop your balls off and watch you juggle them.’
He went very pale and his eyes made frantic signalling motions over my shoulder. I turned round. The two Praetorians on the door were up and running towards us as slow as they could make it without being too obvious. Shit. I let the guy go, and his sandals went thunk on the marble floor behind the desk.
He was sweating like a pig now and the small muscle at the side of his mouth had gone into spasm. ‘Believe me, sir,’ he said. ‘I really don’t think that an interview would be either possible or advisable. Your request has already, regrettably, been turned down at the highest possible level. Please regard this decision as final.’ Taking a deep breath, he brushed at the nap of his tunic where my fingers had crushed it. ‘Now unless you agree to leave quietly...’
The rest was left hanging, but what my old grammar teacher would’ve called the minatory apodosis was pretty obvious. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm it. Sure enough, the guards were hovering just within lunging distance, two six-foot three-hundred-pound musclebound gorillas in gleaming armour trying their hardest to blend in with the furniture. Sure, they probably wouldn’t’ve dared to throw me out physically, but you don’t mess with these guys.
‘Okay.’ I held my hands up, palm out. I don’t think I’d ever been so angry, or so calm. ‘Okay, I’m going, sunshine. But don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.’
I turned and walked between the two frozen-faced guards. Beyond them the senators and businessmen formed an embarrassed, grisly tableau, like a Greek chorus waiting for their cue. Even the coughing senator had shut up. He looked dead to me, but then he always had.
A thought struck me. I stopped and turned back.
‘What did he do, anyway?’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ The secretary looked blank.
‘Ovid. What did he do to deserve exile in the first place?’
The guy’s face did a good impression of cement setting. ‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’
‘Whatever it was, it must’ve been something pretty big, right? When they won’t even allow the bastard home in a box.’
The concrete lips never stirred. The concrete eyes remained unfocused.
I wasn’t taking crap like that. Not from anybody.
‘Don’t you worry, sunshine,’ I said. ‘I’ll get him. I’ll bring him back, one way or another. You tell your bosses that from me.’
And so saying I left, with my patrician nose held high. The family – well, some of them, anyway – would’ve been proud of me. It’s times like this that good breeding tells.
It took me an hour to find the exit.
3.
Later that afternoon, I was having a pre-going-out-to-dinner nap in my study when Bathyllus put his head round the door. If ever human face showed terror, Bathyllus's did.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,' he said, 'but the Lady Rufia Perilla is here.'
The effect that woman had on him was frightening. I reckoned if we could bottle it and feed it to the troops we could add Britain to the empire inside a month. Maybe Parthia as well.
'Shit!' I rolled off the couch, knocking over the statuette of Venus Braiding her Hair which stood on the side table. Bathyllus, tactful as ever, said nothing as he tidied up my rumpled tunic while I stood and scowled. Sure, if I'd been given official permission for the ashes to be returned I'd've been delighted to see the lady back so soon. As it was she was as welcome as a dose of fleas, and I didn't fancy having to explain what'd happened under the scalpel-like gaze of those beautiful golden eyes of hers. Not that I'd failed permanently, of course not. Perish the thought. The Valerii Messallae don't give in that easy. However, I wasn't looking forward to the next step, which was pulling a few strings in the Old Boy network. That meant trading favour for favour, naturally, and some of the things you get asked to do would turn your hair grey.
At least this time I was meeting her sober. Or fairly sober. Well, not exactly drunk. Well,...
I stepped into the atrium like it was the arena and I was top of the menu. Rufia Perilla was standing in the open sitting-area admiring the fresco I'd had done recently of Orpheus and the Maenads, and the early evening sun glinting through the portico from the garde
n beyond kissed her hair with red gold. She must've heard me coming because she turned round and – unbelievably – smiled. My heart gave a lurch. Or maybe it was indigestion.
'You've been to the palace,' she said.
'Yeah.' I lay down on the master couch. Bathyllus was already bringing a chair, and Perilla actually smiled at him as he set it down. He looked lost for an instant. Then he beamed. I could almost see the little bastard's hair curl.
Bathyllus is bald.
'Some wine, sir?' he murmured. Shit. The perfect butler. You could've scooped the smarm off him with a spoon.
'Yeah. Honey-wine for the lady, Bathyllus. Setinian for me. The special.' It was the strongest we had, and I was going to need something pretty strong if I wanted to live through the next half hour with my balls still attached. 'And go easy with the water, okay?'
'So we can arrange for my stepfather's remains to be brought back,' Perilla said when he had gone. 'Corvinus, that's wonderful!'
Normally her use of my last name without the addition of the more formal family one would've set me quivering. Not to mention the smile that went with it. As it was I felt sick as a dog.
'Actually, Lady Rufia...' When you're at a disadvantage, crawl.
'Oh, call me Perilla, please. Mother will be delighted. As to the funeral arrangements, we still keep up the old villa on the hillside above the Claudian-Flaminian junction. We'll bury my stepfather there, in the orchard. He'd've liked that.'
‘Perilla...' Jupiter! It was like trying to dam a river with your bare hands.
'You're invited to the ceremony, of course.'
'Perilla, listen to me. I'm sorry, but –'
She waved me down. 'How long do you think it would take for a ship to go to the Black Sea and back? There must be something from Corinth, surely. Ten days? A month? We'd best say two to be on the safe side. Which means we can arrange the funeral for–'
'Wine, madam?' Bathyllus, reappearing with his tray of winecups, succeeded in doing what I'd been trying to do, and interrupted her.
Perilla frowned. 'I don't, normally. But perhaps just a little of the Setinian. To celebrate.'
It was now or never. I jumped in with both feet. 'Perilla, listen to me. The funeral's off. No ashes. You understand?' Her mouth opened, but I pressed on. 'They turned us down.'
There was a terrible silence, like just before a volcano erupts and even the birds stop singing. For one crazy moment I considered sending Bathyllus to check that my will was safe in the desk.
'I beg your pardon?'
'You can't bring your stepfather back from Tomi after all. At least, not yet. Permission's been refused.'
She was staring at me as if I'd suddenly grown two heads. 'What do you mean, permission's been refused?'
I took the flagon from Bathyllus's tray, poured myself a whopper, and drank it down. Maybe it'd be better if I tried this drunk after all. 'I saw one of the imperial secretaries. He was very apologetic, but there was nothing he could do.'
Perilla drew herself up to her full seated height. I could almost hear the ice crackling.
'Do you mean to tell me, Valerius Corvinus,' she said, and her voice was straight off a glacier, 'that you allowed a civil servant to dictate to you, a patrician from one of the oldest families in Rome?'
I temporised. 'Yeah, well, not really. He was only passing on the decision, so you–'
'And who made the decision? The emperor himself?'
'The guy didn't actually say so, not as such, not in as many words, but that was the implication, yeah.' I was beginning to sweat.
'Valerius Corvinus.' Perilla's voice was terrible. 'Did Tiberius himself refuse to grant the request or did he not?'
I poured another cup of wine and drank it off. The stuff was beginning to work. Maybe another one would do it.
'How the hell should I know?' I said.
That was a mistake. Perilla shot to her feet like a rocketing pheasant. She was stiff with anger.
'You,' she said, 'are a disgrace to your name and the memory of your grandfather. He'd never have given up like that. Not to mention the first member of your family.'
I poured again. 'That bastard only had a Gallic champion to fight,' I muttered. 'Not a bloody harpy.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Nothing.' Shit. I took a large swallow. 'Anyway, who says I've uppen gived?' I noticed that Bathyllus hadn't moved. He stood there with the wine things, stiff as a novelty standing-waiter bronze. 'Given up. 'Course I haven't. We'll just have to try another approach, is all.'
'Corvinus,' she said coldly, 'I think I'll go now, if you don't mind. Before you get even more beastly drunk than you are at present.'
It's good stuff, the special. I actually had the nerve to raise my winecup to her. She glared at me and turned to leave. As she stormed out the sunshine caught her hair again in a net of molten gold. Ah, well. You win some, you lose some.
I was just congratulating myself on getting rid of Perilla when Bathyllus told me I had another visitor. One even less welcome.
My father.
Like I said, we didn't get on and I hadn't seen him for months, barring the occasional brush in the streets when we exchanged dignified and meaningless salutes. Not, in fact, since the divorce. I was upstairs when Bathyllus announced him, getting ready for that evening's party. I changed back into my lounging tunic and went downstairs, the bile sharp in my throat. Bathyllus had left the study door open and I could see Dad's tall thin figure inside. He was standing by my desk examining the title label of a Greek novel I'd been skimming through, his lantern jaw clenched in disapproval.
'Hi, Dad. How's it going?' I said. He turned, as angry as I'd hoped he would be. My father is so uptight about the social niceties that when they burn him they'll find a poker up his rectum inscribed "Property of the Senate and People of Rome". 'Interested in my dirty book collection?'
He put the novel down slowly. Actually, it was pretty well written, and not dirty at all, but I wasn't going to tell him that. It would've spoiled the bastard's evening.
'How are you, Marcus?'
'Okay.' I motioned him to the study's only couch and sat myself in the desk chair. Bathyllus put his nose round the door and I sent him for the wine.
We stared at each other in silence.
'I saw your mother today,' he said finally.
'Nice of you.'
He held up a placating hand. 'She's happy enough.'
'Oh, whoopee.'
My father's mouth turned down. 'The marriage wasn't working, son. Ending it was good for both of us. You know that.'
'For you, maybe,' I said. 'Not for me. And Mother tried her best. She'd never have divorced you. If she had done it'd've been for a reason, not just because it suited her at the time. Not because a new wife would be politically convenient.'
His sallow face flushed with anger. 'It wasn't like that at all! And I won't have you judging me!'
'Thank the gods you don't!' I shot back. He turned away.
There was a polite cough outside the door and Bathyllus reappeared. We sat in stony silence, glaring at each other while Bathyllus poured. When he'd gone, I handed my father a winecup.
'So what do you want?' I said. 'To what do I owe the inestimable pleasure of your fucking presence, Dad? Tell me and then get out.'
He set the cup down untasted. His hands were shaking; but then mine were, too.
'I'm here on official business, Marcus. You caused a bit of trouble at the palace yesterday.'
I took a long swallow. 'You've been misinformed. I didn't cause any trouble. I made a perfectly reasonable request and when it was turned down in what I considered to be an unsatisfactory way I asked for an interview with the emperor.'
'That wasn't what I heard. I was told you got quite abusive.'
'No more abusive than the situation merited.'
'And that you assaulted an imperial secretary.'
'Come off it, Dad!' I set the winecup down hard on the desk, and the wine leapt up over the rim. 'W
hat do you expect? The bastard told me he wouldn't let me see Tiberius. He wouldn't let me! Who the hell is a government clerk to tell a patrician noble that he can't see the emperor?'
'What he told you, and quite correctly, was that your request had already been turned down at the highest level.'
'Meaning by the emperor himself.'
'Meaning presumably just that.'
'Without doing me the courtesy of talking to me first? Without the grace at least to explain his reasons?'
'The emperor doesn't have to give a reason, Marcus. If he says a request is refused, then it's refused, and there's an end of it.'
'Oh, yeah! Sure!' I stood up and turned my back on my father. If I hadn't I think I would've hit him. 'That's your credo, isn't it? The emperor's always right, long live the emperor. If Tiberius passed a decree praising dog turds you'd have half a dozen of them in aspic on your dinner table the next day.'
'That's not fair, son.' My father's voice was calm. 'Tiberius is the First Citizen, the head of state. When he makes an executive decision...'
I turned round. 'Look, let's get this clear, right? I'm not complaining about the decision. I'm not a child. I can take no for an answer. What sticks in my throat is how the Wart's judgement – if it was his judgement – was delivered, and that I was barred from exercising my right...' I stopped, then repeated the words slowly, 'my right, Father, to a personal interview. And if you think I'm going to let the matter rest there then you can go and screw yourself.'
'Oh, yes, you will, Marcus, unless you're a complete fool!' my father snapped. 'That's why I'm here. That's what I've come to tell you, and you'd better listen or you're in real trouble. Leave it alone. You've asked and you've had your answer. Now tell that Rufia Perilla woman there's nothing you can do, and forget about her.'
I walked back over to the desk, picked up my winecup and emptied it at a gulp. 'How did you know about Perilla, Dad?'
'I told you. This is official.'
Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1) Page 2