I said nothing. I'd never heard my father talk before. Not like this.
'Have you ever thought why Cotta's never made the consulship? Never even held one of the senior magistracies? He's from a good family. He's clever, popular, politically aware, a good speaker. A better man in every way than I am. Yet I had my consul's chair before I was thirty-five, while at forty-one he's never made it past junior finance officer. Why do you think that is?'
'Because he isn't an arse-licker.' I was intentionally brutal.
My father didn't even blink.
'Just because someone is for established government,' he said quietly, 'doesn't mean to say he need automatically be labelled a sycophant. Tiberius isn't perfect, the imperial system isn't perfect, but it could be worse. Might be yet for all I know. Tiberius may not be charismatic, but he's steady, and that's what we need in an emperor. Steadiness, not heroics. Flashy isn't always best, Marcus, there's too much at stake. Look at Germanicus's histrionics in Germany. What good did they do except lose us men and reputation?'
I had to agree. Tiberius's adopted son's campaign – which Germanicus himself had trumpeted as a glorious revenge for the Varian massacre – had bombed pretty spectacularly.
'You know the story of the two bulls?' my father said suddenly.
Startled, I shook my head.
'Well, then.' He smiled: a curious, enigmatic smile I'd never seen before. 'There were two bulls, an old one and a young one, looking down into a valley at a herd of cows. The young bull says to the old one, "Look at all those cows down there, Dad! Let's run down and cover a couple." And the old bull turns to him and says, "No, son. Let's walk down and cover them all."'
It took me a moment to realise that my father had made a joke; and then another moment (because he didn't smile) to realise that it wasn't a joke at all.
'I can't help what I am,' I said. 'No more than you can. We're different people and we don't mix.'
He nodded, sadly. 'Yes, son, I know. We're different people. That is the pity of it.'
And then Sarpedon arrived with his salves and bandages, and there was no more time for talking.
13.
Next day before I went round to Perilla's to report developments I dropped by the gymnasium I own near the racetrack for a word with one of my clients, an ex-trainer of gladiators called Scylax. The name (it's a nickname meaning Puppy-Dog in Greek) fits the guy perfectly. He's got the build, the facial features and the temperament of one of these muscle-hard unkillable little brutes you see in country bullrings taking on something two or three hundred times their size and winning. That's Scylax. Once he gets his teeth into someone he won't let go, and when that happens the bastard's dead meat.
We'd met three years before at Aquilo's gym where I went regularly to train. My usual sparring partner had broken his wrist and old Aquilo led this guy out. He may've looked like something you'd drag off with a hook at the end of the Games but Aquilo introduced him like he was less than one step down from Jupiter himself. I should've taken note of that. I didn't. Mistake number one.
We sized each other up. The top of the little runt's bald head was just about level with my chin. Shit, I remember thinking, am I supposed to fight this thing or feed it nuts?
'You ready?' I said.
He didn't answer, so I assumed he was. I feinted to the left then brought the tip of the wooden sword round hard across the top of his belly in the sweetest little sideways slash you've ever seen: a stroke that if we'd been doing this for real should've left him staring at his own tripes. Even with a practice foil it would've hurt like hell; but then (mistake number two) I wanted to show off.
The sword never connected. Instead it was suddenly out of my hand and the little guy was lunging straight at my eyes. I jumped backwards with a scream like a fifty-year-old virgin threatened with gang-rape.
Scylax lowered his sword and scowled down at me as I lay in the sand at his feet.
'Yeah, that's you upper-class bumboys all over,' he growled. 'Shit-scared your mascara gets smudged.'
I was furious. I scrambled to my feet and gave him the works.
'What the hell do you mean by going for my eyes? You could've blinded me, you little fucker!'
'Listen, boy.' His voice was barely a whisper, but I shut up as if my tongue had been nailed to the top of my mouth. 'Sword-fighting's not a game, understand? You're out to kill someone, just like he's out to kill you. There're no rules beyond that. Okay?'
'Yeah, sure, but –'
'No buts. Remember how Caesar won Thapsus, or Munda, or whatever else sodding battle it was? He told his men to cut at the enemy's faces. The patrician bumboys on the other side didn't mind dying but they couldn't stomach the thought of losing their pretty looks, so they ran. End of battle, end of story. Point taken?'
Gods! 'Point taken.'
'Another thing.' Without warning, he aimed a vicious kick at my groin. Instinctively my hands came down to cover my balls and I moved backwards. The kick never happened. Instead the guy's sword swung up to touch my chest. 'You can use a man's worst fear as a feint. And it may not be a feint at all. Right?'
'Right.' By this time I was staring at him like Plato must've stared at Socrates the first time they met. If there'd been any incense around I'd've had it lit and smoking.
'Okay.' He stepped back. 'Now let's start again. And pay attention this time.'
I did; and I'd been paying attention ever since.
Yeah. Scylax was worth his weight in gold; which was only slightly less than I'd paid to set him up in his own training gym behind the racetrack. I didn't regret it. He was the prime reason why I was still walking around that morning with my throat in one piece and nothing worse than a cut shoulder to beef about.
I found him working out a bald old senator with enough lard under his tunic to keep five masseurs busy for a year. The guy was gasping for breath as if he'd just run all the way from Ostia; and by his colour I'd've judged he was no more than a hair's-breadth from hanging up his sandals for keeps.
'Hey, Scylax!' I yelled.
He looked over, then lowered his sword.
'That's enough for today, sir,' he said to the fat guy. 'We don't want to overdo it, do we?'
Yeah, Scylax can be polite enough to the right person. And there are other ways of losing a punter than work him till he turns blue and folds up on you.
The senator was reeling like a drunken pig, but he managed to bring his sword up in the military salute soldiers give their training partners on the practice ground at the end of a bout. Not a sloppy one, either. Crisp as a dream. Suddenly I saw underneath the rolls of fat and the four chins the spry young officer he must once have been; and I wondered what sort of a figure I'd cut in another thirty years.
If I lived that long.
A slave stepped forward with a towel. The fat guy rubbed the sweat from his beefsteak-red face and neck, shook some fresh air into his tunic, and turned to me grinning like a fifteen year old.
'Good workout, eh, boy?' he panted. 'Gets the juices going, right?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah. Great.'
He winked, waved, and stumbled off towards the bath-house. I hoped he'd make it, but he was breathing so hard I wouldn't have given myself better than evens.
Scylax picked up the wooden swords, tucked them under his arm and began walking towards his office in the main building.
'What the hell you doing here, Corvinus?' he said. 'This isn't your usual day. I can squeeze you in, just, but it won't be for long.'
I grinned. That was another thing I liked about the guy. He knew the respect due from client to patron.
'Hey, I own this place, remember?'
'So sell it. But I still can't give you more than half an hour.'
I shook my head and fell into step beside him. 'I'm not fighting today. You wouldn't even raise sweat. I got jumped yesterday and one of the bastards cut me.'
Scylax stopped dead and stared at me. 'You got cut? How bad?'
'Just a sliced shoulder.
Sarpedon patched it up.'
'How many were there?'
'Four.'
He gave a grunt of disgust, spat onto the sand and carried on walking.
'Only four, and they cut you? What were they, kids, women or cripples?'
'Four against one's heavy odds, and you know it. And these guys were professionals. You nearly lost yourself a patron. Would have, if I hadn't had help. Which is what I want to talk to you about.'
He sighed.
'Okay, Corvinus. Maybe I have got time to spare after all. Step over to the bath-house and I'll give you a work-out.'
Uh-uh. That I definitely didn't need.
'Hey, look,' I said. 'No massage, right? I've been beaten up enough times the last few days, thanks.'
He stopped again. His eyes raked me anxiously.
'Yeah? You mean it's happened more than once? What is this?'
'I'm exaggerating. But no massage.'
'Come on, boy.' He took my arm – my good one, luckily: Scylax used his hands like a crab uses its claws – and steered me towards the bath house. 'A good massage never hurt anyone. It'll loosen you up.'
Yeah, I bet that's what they told Prometheus before they sicked the vulture on him, I thought; but I didn't say it out loud. I didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings.
The massage room was empty although I could hear snatches of a jolly military romp from the cold plunge next door. Somebody called Titus had evidently got hold of somebody else's towel and wouldn't give it back. I wondered how we'd managed to put together an empire in the first place, let alone run one.
'Okay, tell me,' Scylax said when he had me face down on one of the tables and had slapped the oil on.
I told him. How much of the details were actually intelligible through the screams I don't know, but he seemed to get the gist of it. And I'm not talking about the noise from Rome's best and brightest in the next room, either.
'Why the hell did you let them all jump you at once?' Scylax demanded.
'You think I should've suggested they take turns?'
Never use sarcasm on your masseur. Scylax grabbed my neck and dug his thumbs in under my shoulder-blades while I shrieked and yammered at him to stop.
'Sorry, Corvinus. That the sore arm?' he said finally, just before I passed out. The sadistic bastard could see that it was. Sarpedon's dressing covered half the bloody shoulder. 'You should've run, boy. Spaced them out and taken them one by one.'
I tried a grin. It didn't work too well.
'Oh, sure,’ I said. ‘Pheidippides is one of my middle names. I run a marathon every morning before breakfast.'
Scylax grunted. 'You say this guy was a foreigner?' I felt a knuckle being inserted between two plates of muscle and whimpered knowing what was coming. It came. After he'd pulled me down off the ceiling I said: 'Yeah. From the north, probably. Could be German. Good Latin, though. And no bonehead.'
Scylax's hands moulded themselves to my ribs and pulled the flesh downwards. Great if you're into that sort of thing. I wasn't. It felt like being skinned by an octopus with suckers the size of soup plates. 'You say he had a sword cut on his left cheek.'
'That's what it looked like. Half his ear was missing. Come on, Scylax. I need a name, okay?'
He was quiet for a long time. I could feel him thinking as the heel of his hand ground its way inch by excruciating inch up my spine. I clenched my teeth and tried not to howl. 'He's no gladiator, I'll tell you that now. A guy that big and that good would stick out a mile in the teams.' This was final. What Scylax didn't know about the professional sword-fighting world wasn't just not worth knowing; it didn't exist. 'Could be a soldier. Ex-soldier, maybe.'
'An auxiliary? What would an auxiliary be doing in Rome?'
'Who said auxiliary? The guy sounds like a legionary. You think he was German?'
'Yeah. Or maybe Illyrian.'
'Illyrian's possible. Tiberius roped in a lot of Illyrian hayseeds the time of the troubles.'
Yeah. That fitted. Twelve years earlier the province of Illyricum had rebelled (my father was actually provincial governor at the time) and for a while it'd looked like everything between the Julian Alps and Macedon was headed down the tube. The emergency had meant that General Tiberius had had to buzz around like a blue arsed fly grabbing all the recruits he could to stop the rebellion spreading.
'I'll buy that,' I said. 'The guy could still have connections, in fact.'
'Connections with Tiberius?' Scylax's hands paused. 'You in some sort of trouble? Official trouble?'
Shit. It had slipped out. Scylax might be a friend but the Ovid affair was private. I covered my tracks.
'Uh-uh. Purely personal.'
'You want to tell me about it?'
'Nothing to tell. You know as much as I do. Maybe I screwed someone's sister.'
'Uh-huh.' He didn't sound convinced. The hands resumed their pummelling. It wasn't so painful now I was getting used to it. Or maybe something vital had broken and I just couldn't feel any more. 'You say you've seen this guy more than once.'
'Yeah. We'd a run-in in a shop off Suburan Street a few days back. Only then he wasn't on my side.'
Scylax clicked his tongue. 'This sounds weirder by the minute, boy.'
He didn't believe me, that was sure. Which wasn't all that surprising. But at the same time he couldn't call me a liar, because it was none of his business.
'Okay,' he said finally. 'Only you need any muscle you let me know, right? Next time you may not be so lucky.'
'Thanks,' I said; and I meant it. When it came to muscle I'd've backed Scylax against a picked squad of Praetorians any day. 'But ask around, will you? I want to know who this guy is.'
'You've got it.' He was kneading and rubbing gently with his fingertips now. I almost purred. 'If the bastard's in Rome, I'll find him. And after that if you want me to I'll take him apart.'
14.
When I finally got to Perilla's she was out.
'The mistress is at the Lady Marcia's, sir,' Callias told me. 'She said for you please to join her there if you called round. It's near the Temple of Cybele.'
'Yeah, I know where the Fabius place is,' I said. 'Great. Thanks a lot, Callias.' The Lady Marcia was Fabius Maximus's widow and, if you remember, a relative of Perilla's mother's. She was practically a neighbour of mine, a bit further up the hill. I could've saved myself a journey. Perilla hadn't thought of stopping by with a message. Oh no. I was only her patron, wasn't I?
I whistled to my four new bodyguards kicking their heels on the corner. They lumbered across flexing their biceps and eyeing Callias like they were wondering how far he'd bounce. These four were the biggest, toughest guys I owned, huge Gauls whose idea of fun was cracking nuts between thumb and forefinger. And I don't mean the kind that grow on trees either.
I'd had it up to here with being mugged. Next time anyone wanted to try it they'd have to get past the Sunshine Boys.
The Fabius mansion was one of the biggest and oldest in Rome, taking up the space between Romulus's hut and the house of Augustus; which as far as neighbours go is pretty impressive stuff. I had one of the Sunshine Boys knock on the door, shouted my name into the septuagenarian door slave's ear, and was ushered inside. The Boys settled down with their backs against the wall to play dice; at least the three who could count up to six did. The fourth seemed happy just to leer at the passing litters.
Perilla was sitting in the garden with an elderly lady I assumed was Marcia. She was wearing my earrings, I noticed, and a sky-blue cloak that went well with the peacock that was strutting up and down beside her. She smiled as I came through the colonnade.
'Oh, hello, Corvinus. You got my message, then?'
Not a trace of guilt in her lovely voice, not a spark of conscience in her lovely eyes. What the hell. I sighed and sat down on the chair the slave had brought for me.
'It must've missed me,' I said. 'Sorry I'm so late. I had to call in on a client.' I glanced sideways at the old woman. She hadn't moved, hadn't even acknowled
ged my presence. Her attention was fixed on the peacock, which was getting itself hyped up for a display. I remembered my manners (yeah, I do have some) and added: 'So introduce me to your aunt.'
Perilla's mouth opened to reply; but just then the peacock spread its tail with a rustling whirr and the old woman turned towards me. I saw bright mad eyes in a doughy lifeless face made even more ghastly by makeup, and a slack mouth in constant motion that dropped spittle.
'Aunt Marcia's out at the moment,' Perilla said quietly. 'This is my mother.'
The peacock shivered and turned in a slow circle, its tail a mass of dead staring eyes, watching me. Watching...
I carried it off somehow, don't ask me how. Jupiter knows what I said; I can't remember a word, only that I was sweating all the time. Then a female slave came out and led the old woman inside leaving us alone. We sat in silence for a while.
'It's one of her bad days,' Perilla said at last. 'She's never rational but at least sometimes she's there, at least she acknowledges your existence and talks to you.'
'How long has she been like that?' I was still shaking. If there's one thing I can't take it's madness and madmen. I can't handle the lack of contact, of common ground. It sends me to pieces every time. I knew a guy once, an army officer who'd seen active service all over and won every decoration going, who was terrified of the touch of a feather against his skin. He couldn't go near a poulterer's shop without breaking out into a cold sweat. That's how madness gets me.
'She's got worse over the last few years,' Perilla said. 'She'd never been entirely well since my stepfather was exiled. Then the strain of working for his recall, managing his estate, plus all the trouble with Rufus...' She hesitated. 'It was just too much for her. She lives here now, as she did before she was married. Aunt Marcia's very good.'
'Can't you do something for her? I mean, there must be doctors, Greek doctors...'
Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1) Page 9
