Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1)

by David Wishart

'Okay,' I said, turning the cup slowly in my hands. 'So just tell me one thing. What did he do? What did Ovid do, to make the Wart hate him so much?'

  Now the next bit is interesting. I was looking squarely at my father when I spoke, so I saw exactly what happened to his face. It was like a door slamming shut. One moment his expression was as open as my father's ever can be, the next his eyes were blank as marble. That was interesting enough; but as I said I was looking directly at him and saw something more. It was no more than a flash, like the glimpse of lamplight behind a closing door, but there was no mistaking it. None.

  What I saw was fear.

  * * *

  Varus to Himself

  I am mad to write this. A traitor's first and cardinal rule is to commit nothing to writing, and thus far I have obeyed it scrupulously. To produce written evidence of one's treason is to raise up a witness against oneself who will shout louder than a hundred calumnies. And that is the last thing I wish to do.

  So why write at all, you ask me (I ask myself?) Certainly not for the edification of posterity. Posterity can go and hang itself: my eyes will be the only ones to read this, and I will burn it as soon as it is complete. Nor is it in any way a confession, a private mortification of a spirit tortured by guilt. To hell with that. If I ever had a conscience I lost it long before puberty, and besides, in common with most traitors I am, if not exactly proud of my treason, at least content in its company. So not that either.

  Perhaps it would be best to call what I am about a justification; an appeal for understanding, by myself to myself. Oh dear, oh dear! That sounds terribly precious, but I am very much afraid that it is the truth. In extenuation, I suspect that I am not alone among traitors in wishing to justify my treason. The disease is endemic to us. Paullus was the exception, fortunately for me and for others: he died silent. Although in fairness, of course, Paullus was not a true traitor.

  So call this a justification, then, of treason undertaken for the best of motives. Or wait, that is unfair and untrue. I would not have you think me a filthy altruist. No, what I am doing is, frankly, profitable and will provide materially for what I hope will be a long, comfortable and very self-indulgent retirement. The fact that it will benefit Rome is to me, alas, a comparatively minor issue, although satisfying to contemplate. Had Arminius appealed to my gentlemanly instincts (assuming, for the sake of argument, their existence!), or had he been niggardly with his rewards, I doubt very much whether venal old Varus would have co-operated. Ah me. Sad, is it not? Sad but true.

  You see? I am being completely honest. But then by their own lights most traitors are.

  So, then. We are agreed in calling this a justification. Now let me set the scene for you. Who are we, and where?

  We are three legions. Fifteen thousand men, plus cavalry, auxiliary troops, baggage carts and mules. The pride and power of Rome and of her first citizen Augustus, with its impedimenta, returning south for the winter to the not-quite-province of Germany of which I am the emperor's governor and viceroy. The campaigning season being successfully completed, we are en route from our summer camp on the Weser to Vetera on the Rhine, where (the gods help us!) my headquarters are located: a distance, as the crow flies, of some hundred and fifty miles, although as the Roman marches it is further and, alas, entails considerably greater effort.

  So much is public knowledge. What follows is for your eyes only. Soon, perhaps somewhere between the Ems and the Lippe, news will reach us of trouble to the east among the large and warlike Cheruscan tribe.

  And then?

  And then, my gentle and imaginary confidant, the final act of my treason will begin.

  4.

  I was down to the Market Square next morning as early as my hangover would let me with a mental list of promising contacts. The list was pretty short. Like I say, I didn't use the Old Boy network much and just the thought of being indebted to any of my father's cronies made me sick to my stomach. Nevertheless there were a few strings I could tug, several favours I could call in and if the worst came to the worst even one or two arms I could twist with a little judicious blackmail. It shouldn't be too difficult. After all, what's a handful of ashes and burnt bone between friends?

  Market Square was crawling like an ants' nest, and like it always does in the mornings when most of the business is done it smelt of shaving talc and raw power. Before I'd pushed my way ten yards through the crowd I'd overheard two under-the-counter trading scams discussed, one fat senator putting the bite on another for some fancy political footwork and a mid-ranking civil servant being bribed over a government marble tender. Obviously a quiet day. Not that your average plain-mantled punter would've noticed anything, of course. These deals aren't made in straightforward Latin. To understand what's going on you have to know the special language. We patricians speak it fluently from birth, which is why so many of us are still alive even after bastards like Caesar and Augustus were through with us.

  I struck lucky straight off. I'd just drawn level with the Temple of Castor when I spotted Caelius Crispus ooze down the steps of the Julian Basilica and come through the crowd towards me. I swear I could smell the guy's scent even at that distance; violets, mostly, with overtones of musk. His boyfriend at the palace must've bought him a gallon of the stuff. Crispus was perfect. His grandfather had been a pork-butcher, he'd never held any public office, and he wasn't likely to even in these democratic, degenerate days; all of which meant that my father wouldn't've touched him with his third best gloves on. Even so for reasons it was best not to go into too deeply he was one of the most influential men in Rome. Better still, he owed me one, and a pretty big one at that. I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that it involved a very young boy, a very strait-laced Gallic daddy just in from the sticks, and a very sharp dagger; and that it'd been Crispus's sheer good luck that I happened to be passing in a covered litter at the time.

  'Hey, Crispus!' I shouted.

  He saw me. Sure he saw me. His eyes widened and then with a piece of ham acting that wouldn't've deceived a five-year-old he looked away, waved to a non-existent friend on the steps of the Temple of Saturn and took off like a rabbit in the direction of Spain. Now that I wasn't having. No one – but no one – cuts a Valerius Messalla with impunity, not when he's calling in a favour. I piled in after the guy, stamping on a few august senatorial corns and outraging a dignity or two in the process, and ran him down with a hand on his shoulder just short of the Speakers' Platform.

  'Corvinus.' he batted his eyelashes at me as if I'd sprung from nowhere. 'What a pleasant surprise.'

  'Yeah, sure.' I wiped my hand on my tunic. 'Where's the fire, Crispus?'

  His eyes shifted. 'What fire?'

  'You were running, you bastard. So why don't you want to talk to me?'

  'I was in a hurry. Am in a hurry. Someone at the Treasury. I have to talk to him urgently.'

  He was frightened. I could smell his fear even above the scent, and the muscles at the sides of his mouth were twitching.

  'He can wait.' I tucked his arm firmly under mine and tried not to breathe too deeply as I led him back towards Augustus Arch. 'He can wait because I'm going to buy you a drink at Gorgo's, right? And then I'll tell you what you can do for me in exchange.'

  By the time I'd got Crispus to the wineshop off the Sacred Way the guy had all the vitality and colour of two-day-old lettuce. This, mark you, before I'd so much as nibbled at him, let alone put the bite on properly. That could mean only one thing. He knew what I was after already. And that, given the bastard's reaction, was interesting.

  Crispus was a trader, specialising in dirty gossip, the murkier the better. Political secrets, social scandals. Who was screwing who, or preferably what, and how and why they were doing it. He'd no scruples, no conscience and (which was the point) no nerves. What Crispus knew may have kept him eating and surely kept him safe – because Crispus knew a hell of a lot of things about a hell of a lot of people – but it wasn't the kind of life that was good for the digestion; li
ke walking a tightrope with your second-worst enemy throwing rocks at you and your first busy with a hacksaw. So if Crispus was scared of giving me the information I wanted (which he obviously was) then I'd give a lot to know why.

  It was a cold day, but I needed privacy so we sat down at an outside table. I ordered up a flask of Alban and a plate of cheese and dried figs, and as soon as the waiter left I got straight down to business.

  'You're still attached to the imperial branch of the civil service, right?'

  He nodded warily. We both knew what that ‘attached’ stood for.

  'Good.' I took a cautious sip of my wine and swallowed carefully. Gorgo's best was still liable to go down like a handful of gravel. 'I've been having some trouble with them lately. Maybe you've heard?'

  Crispus said nothing. I'd seen more expression on the face of a boiled sturgeon.

  'Okay,' I played it straight faced. 'So maybe you haven't. I want to bring the poet Ovid's ashes back to Rome and I need help to do it. You've just drawn the lucky number.'

  The bastard was shaking so hard the table was moving, but I pretended not to notice.

  'I'd like to, Corvinus,' he said. 'Believe me. But–'

  I cut him short. 'The poor sod's dead, okay? It's not like I was asking for an imperial pardon. I just want his ashes in a plain clay urn. Now come on, be a pal. Have a discreet word in someone's ear or whatever you diplomatic bastards do and save us all a load of trouble.'

  'It's not the sort of thing my...department handles. And I'd hate to tread on anyone's toes.'

  'Look, don't give me that, right?' I pushed the plate of cheese and figs across the table towards him. He shook his head. He hadn't touched his wine, either, but maybe that was just good taste. 'It's garbage and you know it. If your friend doesn't deal with that sort of thing himself then you know someone else who does, and you're probably good enough mates to share a scraper in the baths.'

  He gave me a sharp look, and I knew I'd unwittingly touched a nerve. However, the complications of Crispus's private life were no concern of mine.

  'I'm not saying I wouldn't know who to talk to,' he said. 'Of course I would. But it wouldn't do any good.'

  'Why not?'

  His forehead was beginning to shine with sweat. He wiped it with the back of his hand. 'Don't push me,’ he said ‘It just wouldn't. Believe me.'

  'I don't. Persuade me some more.' I popped a fig into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. 'Listen, pal. You owe me a favour. If it hadn't been for me you'd be singing soprano in the civil service glee club. I'm not asking for much and I won't take no for an answer. So fix it for me, okay?'

  'You don't understand.' His face was grey now, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth was getting worse. 'The decision's already been made, and it's final.'

  I lost my temper. 'Then have it unmade! Sweet gods alive, I've had about enough of this! Since when has the imperial displeasure extended to an urnful of fucking bones? That's all Ovid is now, whatever he did ten years ago. And speaking of which if you can't help me get him back then at least you can tell me what that was.'

  As I said the words I saw the fear leap into his eyes just before the shutters slammed down. This was getting monotonous. First the secretary, then my father. Now Crispus. Seemingly everybody I talked to knew what Ovid's crime had been. It looked as if I was the only guy in Rome who didn't.

  There was no point in shouting. I backed off a little; sat back, emptied my winecup and poured a second. Smiled, or tried to.

  'Come on,' I said. 'You can tell me that, eh? A mine of information like you? Just what crime did Ovid commit? Why's the Wart so against having the poor bastard's ashes buried in Roman soil? Just tell me that, and if the reason's a good one I swear I'll give up and go home. Debt cancelled. Deal?' He was watching me with the horrified, fascinated gaze of a rabbit watching a stoat. 'Come on, now. What did Ovid do that was so terrible?'

  Crispus glanced quickly to either side of us like he expected the emperor himself to spring up from under one of the neighbouring tables and slap a treason writ on him.

  'Leave it alone, Corvinus,' he muttered. 'Don't dig, don't ask questions, don't do anything. Just give this thing up right now before you live to regret it.'

  And before I could stop him he was up and running: slipping from behind the table and out of the courtyard into the street fast as an Olympic sprinter. I flung a few coins in the direction of the waiter and tried to follow. But he must've wanted to get away very badly indeed, because when I looked for him he was already gone.

  Round Two to the bureaucrats, I thought sourly as I went back to finish the wine. If they expected me to give up that easily then they were whistling through their collective rectums.

  So where were we? I knew two things so far. First of all whatever Ovid had been guilty of was common knowledge, at least among the top brass and their ‘attachments’. Secondly it was so bad, or so politically sensitive, that even after ten years everyone was still shit-scared to talk about it. And that was interesting.

  So how could I find out?

  The answer was so ludicrously obvious that when I thought of it I could've kicked myself all the way back to the Palatine.

  Perilla was Ovid's stepdaughter. She'd know what he'd done. Or her mother would. All I had to do was ask.

  Easy, right?

  5.

  Suillius Rufus's place was on the slopes of the Esquiline not far from the Maecenas Gardens. It was good sound sycophant's property, flashy enough to impress but not sufficiently grand to attract dangerous envy in these luxury-sensitive times. The slave who opened the door for me wore red. Given the look of the place that could've only been for one of two reasons, first the chichi visual pun on Rufus's name, second because the Red team at the racecourse was Tiberius's favourite. Or at least everybody thought it was Tiberius's favourite. Personally I had my doubts. The Wart was quite capable of spreading a rumour like that just for the fun of watching guys like Rufus fall over themselves trying to lick his arse.

  The wall mosaic in the lobby was politically correct too. Forget your bourgeoise "Beware of the Dog" tat, this was Art: a more-than-life-size Divine Augustus, golden rays of glory streaming from his noble brow, seated on a pink cloud between the goddesses of Piety and Liberality, shedding his gracious lustre on the tiny City of Rome below. All beautifully and tastefully done in stones the size of my little fingernail. You could even make out the goddess's nipples.

  The thing must've cost an arm and a leg. I nearly threw up all over it.

  I gave my name to the slave and he led me through the marble pillared atrium into the garden (the pool, I noticed in passing, had a Venus and Cupids bathing in it. Another compliment to Augustus's adoptive Julian ancestors, perhaps. Or maybe Rufus was just a randy bugger). The day had brightened but it was still cold. Perilla, sitting in a chair under the shelter of an arbutus and dressed in a fetching little yellow number that looked more for show than warmth, didn't seem concerned. Scattered around her feet were half the contents of the Pollio Library; which was more or less what I'd been expecting. Since her last visit I'd done a bit of homework on sweet little Rufia Perilla. She was a pretty smart lady, not just a poet's stepdaughter but a poet herself and a mean mind where the literary heavies were concerned. As a peace offering to one of my usual bubbleheads I'd've brought perfume or maybe a little trinket from Argyrion's in the Saepta. For Perilla I'd chosen a book; a very rare copy of some Alexandrian pansy who wrote about shepherd-boys (no, I don't know which one. He was expensive, that's all I know).

  Why I should be apologising to her when she'd been the one to call me names I've no idea. But that's the way things work. Understand that and you understand women.

  'Corvinus!' she looked up smiling from the scroll she was reading. 'Lovely to see you!' Yeah, good news. It seemed like I was forgiven after all, even without the book. I handed it over anyway. She looked at the title label and purred with the sort of pleasure I keep for baked sturgeon with a quince sauce. 'Oh, how absolute
ly marvellous! Thank you!' She turned to the slave. 'Callias, bring Valerius Corvinus a chair and some wine.'

  Obviously a lady of some sensitivity. Maybe I'd misjudged her.

  The slave shot off and was back in record time. He had a harried, chewed look about him that I recognised, and I felt for the poor bastard. Being a slave in Perilla's household must've been as wearing on the nerves as being chief manicurist to Cleopatra's leopards.

  I sat down and sipped at the wine. It was Falernian and so ought to've been good, but it was third rate stuff. Whatever the absent Rufus's qualities were (and he must've had some besides an ability to use his tongue to good advantage) they obviously didn't extend to a discriminating palate. Or maybe it was the fault of his cellarman. If so the guy should be crucified with a flask of the stuff up his rectum. I set the cup aside as unobtrusively as I could.

  'Now.' Perilla laid the book aside and settled back, giving me the kind of smile that would have any Greek sculptor worth his salt reaching for his sketchbook. 'Don't tell me. You've seen the emperor and he's agreed.'

  'Uh...actually no. That's not why I've come.' The smile faded from her face but at least she didn't freeze up on me.

  'But you're making progress.'

  'I'm trying. Believe me I'm trying. There's just nothing doing.'

  'Why not?'

  I shrugged. 'Your guess is as good as mine. All I get are solid refusals right down the line. I think it might have something to do with your stepfather's crime.' She didn't say anything, so I lightened it up a bit. 'What did the old guy do? Personally promise to hand Armenia over to the Parthians? Rape Livia? Rape Augustus? Burst one of the Wart's boils?' Silence. 'Oh, come on, lady! I'm your patron, remember?'

  'I don't know,' she said at last. 'My stepfather never told us.'

  Jupiter! 'What do you mean, he never told you? The guy had been punished already. The secret was out.'

  She shook her head. Today the golden hair was tied up in a tight braid, simpler than was fashionable but suiting her perfectly. A single curl lay tantalisingly against each temple. I could smell roses.