Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1)

by David Wishart

  11.

  I was on my way back for my cloak when the bastards hit me; four of them, and not Silanus's goons either, unless he employed a private army. These guys were professional knifemen.

  Running was pointless – there was nowhere to go out here in the sticks – and I knew I could yell my lungs inside out before any of Silanus's slaves came to help. I reached for the knife at my wrist. Only after the general shake-up of the last few minutes the knife wasn't there any more.

  Bugger it. I wished I wasn't a betting man. You find yourself working the odds out almost without thinking, and I'd've put mine at fifty to one easy. With odds like that even if the Cumaean Sibyl herself had appeared with all nine of the Books of Prophecy under her arm and given me the thumbs-up I still wouldn't've backed myself short of a place in the first five.

  'Okay, lads,' I held up my hands. 'I don't want trouble. If it's my purse you want you've got it.'

  They'd fanned out across the path, and they were coming slowly towards me. The guy in the centre grinned with a mouth like the exit to the Great Drain.

  'Fuck that, Corvinus,' he said. 'Money's the least of your worries where you're going.'

  Uh-huh. So no prizes for guessing who these beauties were working for. And this time it looked like they were aiming at a permanent solution.

  'Look, whatever the Wart's paying you I'll double it.' I edged backwards and sideways. 'Treble it. Okay, quadruple it.' My spine ground against the masonry of Silanus's garden wall. 'What comes after four?'

  'We'd never live to collect. You're dead meat, boy.'

  My eyes were on the point of the knife weaving backwards and forwards at belly height, and my guts crawled as I imagined that foot of steel ripping into me and up towards my ribs. It was now or never. Murmuring a quick prayer to whatever god protects rich young smartasses stupid enough to go out alone without a nanny I leaned sideways and kicked the guy hard in the balls. He grunted, dropped his knife and folded up like yesterday's copy of the Acts of the Senate.

  Yeah. Not exactly what they teach you in the best schools – I hoped none of my ancestors were watching – but it did the job. One down, three to go.

  The others closed in on me like it was the Winter Festival and I was the slave with the nuts. I stooped, snatched up a coping tile that had fallen from the top of the wall and smashed the first guy's teeth in. Two down. Good, but not good enough.

  After that things got pretty lively. There's only so much you can do if you're one against two once the element of surprise has gone, and as it was I reckoned I was about set for the death mask and the family vaults. I'd just closed with one of the bastards when someone laid a red hot poker against my shoulder. It was a good second before I realised it was the other guy's knife. I glanced round and saw him bring his arm back for a second try. Oh, well, I thought, what the hell. It was a good life while it lasted. I'd've liked to've had Perilla, though...

  At that moment what the Greeks call The Divine interposed its hand. Literally. The guy who'd stabbed me never had a chance. A huge hairy mitt reached out of the sky, plucked him off the ground and mashed him against the wall like a beetle. Then a second detached me gently from the bastard I'd been hugging and held him up while a fist the size and hardness of a catapult bolt scattered his teeth over half the Janiculum.

  Everything was suddenly very quiet, the way it usually is after thunderbolts. I could even hear birds singing. I propped myself up against the wall with my good arm and looked around. The two knifemen I'd seen accounted for lay on the ground looking like they'd come off second equal in a fight with a blood-crazed rhino. The ones I'd dealt with myself were nowhere. Maybe they'd been eaten.

  Then I saw who I had to thank for rescuing me. I suppose I'd assumed from the guy's size that it was Silanus's Geta, though why the hell he should bother I didn't know.

  It wasn't. It was Big Fritz from the potter's shop, and nothing made sense any more.

  'You okay, Corvinus?' He was flicking stray teeth from between his knuckles.

  'Yeah,' I said. 'Never better. Apart from this hole in the shoulder you could drive a chariot through, of course.'

  He grabbed my arm, inspected the wound, then thumped me on the back. It was like being mugged by the Great Pyramid. My shoulder didn't feel a hell of a lot better for it either.

  'Just a scratch. The knife must've slid off the bone. Keep it clean and it should heal okay in a few days.'

  'You're a doctor then?' I tried to sound sarcastic but he only nodded.

  'When I have to be.' He took a rag out of his tunic and gave it to me. I thought it'd be filthy, but it was clean and faded with washing. 'Here. Use this.'

  Then suddenly without another word he was walking away, back in the direction of the Aemilian Bridge. At first I just stared. Then when it was obvious he wasn't going to stop I shouted after him:

  'Hey!'

  No response. The big guy just kept on walking like he hadn't heard. I limped after him and pulled at his arm.

  'Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?'

  I knew as soon as I'd done it that it was a mistake, like pulling a tiger back by the tail when it doesn't want your company. He whipped round and I let go, fast. We stared at each other for two or three heartbeats while I wished I was somewhere else. Like Naples, say. Finally he growled:

  'Don't push your luck, Corvinus. Just be thankful I didn't leave you to these bastards to finish off.'

  Great. 'Okay. So why didn't you?'

  'Nothing personal. I don't like unequal numbers, is all. Which is lucky for you because, friend, I'd rather have you dead and rotten.'

  Ouch. He meant it, too.

  'You mind telling me why?'

  He levelled a finger. 'Listen. Stop fucking around, okay? You could do more harm than you know. This is your last warning. Cut the questions or the next time someone comes down on you it'll be me.' He spat neatly onto the back of one of the fallen knifemen 'And I'll do a better job than this garbage. Get me?'

  And without waiting for an answer he turned and walked off down the path.

  'Who are you working for?' I shouted to his retreating back. 'Who sent you?'

  He didn't even break step. I doubt if he even heard me.

  I hobbled round to the beech tree by the back wall to pick up my mantle. So the guys who attacked me hadn't been Big Fritz's friends after all. Or if they had been they didn't need enemies. Which meant if Big Fritz was the Wart's then they couldn't have been. And vice versa. Unless of course they were...

  Shit. I couldn't think. My brain was numb, my shoulder was aching like hell and I had a lump the size of a goose egg on the side of my head where I'd landed when Geta had thrown me out.

  ‘You could do more harm than you know.’ Yeah, well, that made sense. Furkling around in the imperial dirty linen basket wasn't likely to throw up any roses, and because I hadn't the slightest idea what I was looking for except that Tiberius didn't want it made public I had to be grateful for whatever I could get. All the same there'd been a personal feel to Big Fritz's words. He'd said them as if he'd meant them. As if he really cared...

  I grinned and shook my aching head. Oh, yeah, sure. Big Fritz is the Wart's catamite and the old bugger's using him to put the bite on. Great idea. Dream on, Corvinus.

  I found my mantle and wound it round me as best I could, which wasn't exactly how Rome's best dressed were wearing it this season. Bathyllus would have a fit when I got back, he hated it when I looked sloppy. Then I set off at a fast limp for the Aemelian Bridge and home.

  * * *

  Varus to Himself

  The Farce, first act.

  Vela has just left, having reported, to my immense surprise and consternation, that the Cheruscan tribe is reputedly preparing armed rebellion. I seize, of course, on the adverb. Arminius knows how important it will be for me to guard my back, and he would not want me to appear too hasty in swallowing the bait he has dangled in front of my greedy Roman jaws.

  '"Reputedly"?'

/>   'A rumour only, sir,' Vela assures me, 'brought by natives of doubtful probity under highly suspicious circumstances.'

  I try not to wince. Vela has a low opinion of Germans; which tells you more about Vela than about our barbarian brothers. Ironically in this case his suspicions are well-founded: the Germans have no intentions of beginning a major war. Even my treachery has its limits.

  When all this is over, Vela, as my deputy, will inevitably be asked for a deposition regarding my conduct in the affair. I am therefore suitably cautious.

  'You discount the rumour, then?'

  'Yes, General. I do.' Just that, no more. Again I play safe, and grunt my firm agreement.

  'Indeed,' I say. 'We have the army to consider, and the season. Intervention would entail a march through difficult and dangerous country.' I stiffen my jaw and look grave. 'Before I give that particular order, Vela, I will require far better evidence than unsubstantiated rumours.'

  He is already nodding unqualified approval. 'Exactly, sir. My feelings entirely.'

  'However.' I let the word hang. I have flung my sop to Cerberus. Now I must of necessity slip past him. 'Should that evidence be forthcoming then that would be another matter, would it not?' Vela says nothing, but his lips tighten. 'Or do you disagree?'

  He hems and haws. Finally he falls down on the side of the fence he has chosen all along.

  'Yes, sir. Even then, I would distrust the reliability of even the strongest evidence. Especially in the light of what Segestes told us before we left.'

  The words chill me: it is not like Vela to be so dogmatic. Or so perceptive. Segestes is the father of Arminius's wife Thrusnelda, and a Romanophile of frightening proportions. Worse, he knows what he is talking about. Or thinks he knows. I turn my face away from the lamp, into the shadows, and keep my voice level.

  'You think it's a trick? A German stratagem to draw us from our line of march?'

  'Perhaps, sir.'

  His voice is noncommittal; which should reassure me but does not. Can Vela suspect? Worse, can he know? If so then I am finished. As is Arminius.

  'We send scouts,' I say abruptly. 'We find out the truth and take action accordingly. You agree?' Silence. 'Vela, do you agree?'

  A pause; too long a pause.

  'Yes, General. I agree.' A muscle in his cheek twitches. Suspicion? Distaste? Nerves?

  'Good. Make the arrangements, would you?' I look down at the papers on my desk as if they are of vital interest (they deal with a complaint from the head muleteer concerning poor quality bridle leather). When he still does not go I look up again, impatiently. 'That is all, Vela. For the moment.'

  Vela throws me his pudding-soft salute and leaves me to my deliberations, which are not pleasant ones by any means.

  Does he know? Can he know? Or is there some other reason for his behaviour?

  The 'proof' will be forthcoming, of course. Arminius has managed this well; but then his heart is Roman, and so he has a natural flair for organisation...

  It is late. I am tired, I cannot think any more, and my old bones are cold. I shall tell my orderly to warm me up some wine and then, like a man of virtue, wrap myself up in my general's cloak for sleep.

  12.

  When I finally got back home more dead than alive my father was waiting for me. It put the cap on a perfect day. Bathyllus had strict standing instructions whenever I arrived and wherever I'd come from to have a full wine jug ready and waiting for me on the table by the door. I picked this up, filled the winecup next to it and emptied it at a swallow.

  'So what is it now, Dad?' I said. 'You on another message from the palace? Don't tell me. The Wart needs a clean lavatory sponge.'

  My father was staring at the stains on my tunic, the crusted blood in my hair, and especially at the bloody gash on my left shoulder.

  'What happened, Marcus?' he said.

  'I had a run-in with a few roughs.' I eased myself onto the master couch, filled the cup again and set the jug down on the table beside me. 'Nothing to worry about. If you are worried.'

  He turned to Bathyllus, who was hovering in the doorway.

  'Send for Sarpedon,' he snapped. Sarpedon was one of the best doctors in Rome; he'd cost Dad a small fortune when he'd bought him. 'And make sure the baths are hot.'

  'Look, Dad, I'm okay, right?' I stretched out carefully and sipped my wine, more slowly this time. 'Just leave it, will you?'

  'Sarpedon will be the judge of that, boy. Certainly the cut in your shoulder needs attention.'

  I was too tired and too sore to argue. When Bathyllus had left my father turned back to me.

  'Now what's this all about?' he said.

  I shrugged, or tried to. 'I was over the other side of the river. I got jumped. They cut me and took my purse. End of story.'

  'You're lying.'

  I noticed with surprise that his hands and the muscles of his face were trembling. My father isn't the emotional type. At banquets he gets mistaken for the fish course. And he doesn't use straight crude words like ‘lying’ either. The nearest he ever comes is something like ‘I don't believe that's strictly accurate’ or just ‘I think you're mistaken’. The flat accusation came as such a shock that I didn't even think of denying it.

  'Yeah, okay. So I'm lying,’ I said. ‘So you caught me. Now what?'

  He was trembling; with anger, I assumed.

  'Marcus, give it up,’ he said. ‘Believe me, you don't know how dangerous what you're doing is.'

  'So tell me,' I was getting pretty angry myself now. I'd had a long hard day and I wasn't taking this crap from anyone. 'You just tell me, Dad. Tell me why the emperor hates a dead poet so much he won't allow his ashes back to Rome. Tell me why when I ask questions about a scandal so old that you can't even smell it any more everyone keeps his mouth shut closer than a Vestal's kneecaps. Tell me why I nearly end up in the Tiber with my throat cut just because I go to see someone who Augustus didn't exile for not screwing his granddaughter. And if you can work out what that last little gem means, then you can explain it to me because I haven't got a fucking clue.'

  My father's face was ashen.

  'I can't do that, Marcus,' he said. 'I can't trust you enough.'

  That stopped me. Not, ‘I don't know what you're talking about’ but ‘I can't trust you enough.’

  'What the hell does that mean?'

  'Just what it says.'

  'Trust me to do what?'

  'To keep the information to yourself.'

  I laughed. 'Jupiter fucking Best and Greatest! Half of Rome is in on this, Dad!'

  'Don't blaspheme. Not quite half of Rome. Only the responsible element. And the reason they don't tell is that they know it doesn't matter.'

  I couldn't believe this. 'Run that one past me again. If it doesn't matter then surely there's no reason why I shouldn't be told.'

  'Listen to me!' My father's fist suddenly thudded onto the table top. 'I'm trying to save your life here! Of course you're being stonewalled! Of course there's a secret! Of course there's a conspiracy of silence! Do you expect me to deny any of that? What I'm telling you is that there's a point to it, that if the details leaked out they would do far more harm than good. And that before they let that happen the powers-that-be would see you or me or any other individual, no matter how well-born or powerful, go to the wall. Not because the information is important to the survival of the state but because it isn't. Now have I made myself clear?'

  We stared at each other in silence. Finally, my father sat back. He was still shaking, and a droplet of sweat gleamed on his forehead. In spite of myself I was impressed: the guy really meant it. Or sounded like he did.

  'Okay,' I said. 'Trust me. I swear I won't tell another living soul. Not even Perilla. And if it's as innocent as you say it is –'

  My father closed his eyes and pressed his palms to them as if forcing the eyeballs back into their sockets.

  'You still haven't understood, have you, son?' he said. 'There're no if's or but's. It isn't a question of
personal judgement, either yours or mine. And I never said the secret was innocent. I said it didn't matter.'

  'I don't give a toss if it's innocent or not. I have to know. One way or the other, for my own satisfaction. You may as well tell me and save us both a lot of grief. I'll swear that it won't go any further, if that's what you want.'

  'And that you won't use it as the basis for action? That if I tell you you'll drop this whole stupid Ovid business right now?'

  I was silent. My father nodded. 'You see? We're both trapped by our principles. I can't tell you what you want to know unless you promise not to use it, you can't make that promise until you know what the secret is. And I can't be responsible for telling you unless you do promise. That would only get both of us killed. And much though I love you, son, in spite of everything, I'm not prepared to take that risk.'

  'Risk?'

  'Certainty, then. It would be a certainty, Marcus. Give it up. Please. The knowledge isn't important, not now especially, I promise you that. And if you persist you won't live long enough to regret it.'

  The emotional appeal impressed me. I hadn't thought my father was capable of making one. If it was genuine, of course, and not some rhetorical trick. As an experienced orator Dad was perfectly capable of counterfeiting any emotion he pleased. Even granted that the emotion was real, however, if he had his beliefs he must allow me mine.

  'I'm sorry, Dad,' I said. 'I told you. I've got to know. And if you won't tell me I'll just have to find out for myself.'

  He looked at me for a long time, rather sadly I thought but with a touch of something that could possibly have been pride. 'You're like your Uncle Cotta, son,’ he said. ‘You know that? You both think with your heart, not with your head. Other people grow out of it. He never did, and you won't either.'

  'Is that so bad?'

  His tone of voice didn't change. He wasn't arguing, he was just...talking.

  'Of course it's bad. This is the modern world, Marcus, and it belongs to the grey bureaucrats. If you'd been born five centuries ago you'd be in the school books along with Horatius and Scaevola and all the other heroes. You're the kind that stands alone on bridges facing impossible odds or holding your hand in the fire until it withers just to prove a point. Then you'd've been called a hero. Nothing would've been too good for you. Now you're only an embarrassment.'