Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1)

by David Wishart

  The trouble is the world has changed and we've had to change with it, whether we like it or not. A hundred years ago there was no problem. We were the state, and so serving the state came naturally because we were serving ourselves. Now the state, or at least what matters of it, has been taken from us. We're like thoroughbred horses forced to work a corn mill, trudging round and round in the same never-ending circle. Yeah, sure. Sure, I know. What good's a thoroughbred except to race against other thoroughbreds and impress the yokels? Corn's a necessity, and it doesn't grind itself. So the modern state puts us to useful work. Only it expects us to behave like mules or plough-oxen, and not chafe at the traces. That's what sticks in my throat.

  Sure, I was an egotist. I was selfish. I was self-opinionated. I was everything else my father thought I was. But these qualities were bred into my bones and they had their good sides as well. Determination, for a start. I'd never not seen something through in my life and I didn't mean to begin now. Whether it hurt me or not.

  That was the problem. This time it wasn't just me. Perilla was involved too. If I turned down the Cyprus posting it'd be tantamount to a declaration of war. Total commitment. And knowing what I was up against did I have the right to put Perilla at risk as well?

  That was something I had to think about.

  And I was still thinking, with very little result, when Bathyllus brought me a message from Perilla. It was in two parts, the first asking me if I was free for dinner the following evening (was I! I'd've cancelled a dice lesson from Hermes himself for that!), the second to say that Harpale had arranged a meeting with Davus, Julia's ex-door slave. He'd be waiting for me at Paquius's warehouse in the Velabrum at noon on the last day of the festival.

  I'd read the message and was about to dismiss Bathyllus when I remembered something.

  'Bathyllus, you were with my father in Illyricum, weren't you?'

  'Yes, sir. I was the general's body-servant, sir.' Bathyllus was proud of what he calls his military experience. 'Myself and Nicanor, who is still with him.'

  'Do you remember if Tiberius went back to Rome at all at any stage?'

  He didn't even stop to think; which with Bathyllus puts any pronouncement he makes into the Delphic Oracle league.

  'No, sir. Not until the winter before the last campaign when he left Aemilius Lepidus in charge at Siscia.'

  That would be when Ovid had already left for Tomi, or even after he'd got there. Far too late, in any event.

  'You're sure? Absolutely one-hundred-percent cast-iron swear-on-your-grandmother's-grave certain?' Best not to leave any room for doubts.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Fuck.'

  'Quite, sir.' Bathyllus's expression didn't change. 'Will that be all, sir?'

  Ah well. As I said, I wasn't too unhappy to see it go. But the theory had been a peach while it lasted.

  'Yeah. No – bring me a jug of Setinian. A large one, the best we've got. I may as well go down happy. And after that I want you to take a message round to my father's.'

  I'd decided. Ovid was my problem and I couldn't just walk away from him. Perilla would understand: she was thoroughgoing Upper-Class Bastard too, in her own sweet way. And I knew that if I'd chosen Cyprus I'd never have had the guts to see her again.

  When Bathyllus brought the wine I poured out the first cup to the war goddess Bellona. I have a soft spot for the bloodthirsty old bitch. She's Roman through and through, she's an outsider with no priest and no festival of her own, and there's no better god to call on when you're declaring a war to the knife.

  I might be a selfish egotistical bastard but I'm a determined one. I don't give up. And I don't desert my friends.

  * * *

  Varus to Himself

  The scouts I had Vela send to reconnoitre returned this morning, together with a captured Cheruscan dissident able and eager to furnish us with 'proof' of Arminius's intentions. The staff meeting which followed their return, however, was far from straightforward. Although since our interview I had anticipated – feared – resistance from Vela, his opposition verged upon outright mutiny; a fact which must give me pause.

  There were four of us round the table: myself, Vela, Eggius and Ceionius; two of whom, of course – myself and Ceionius, if you have forgotten – knew the truth of the matter.

  I hoped and prayed that the number had not risen to three.

  'Well, gentlemen,' I began. 'We have our confirmation. The Cherusci are arming. What is our response?'

  'Hardly confirmation, General,' Vela murmured. 'The word of a single deserter is not confirmation.'

  'It's enough for me,' Ceionius growled.

  'And me.' That, on cue, from the fiery Eggius.

  'What would you have me do, Vela?' I spread my hands in a gesture of helpless reasonableness. 'Ignore Arminius? March past with eyes averted like a shy virgin and leave him a whole winter to gather strength?'

  'Foolishness,' Ceionius nodded. So did Eggius, who was thinking already, no doubt, of the feats of valour he would perform.

  'Smash him, General,' he said, so far as the clenching of his manly jaw would allow him. 'Smash him now, and when you've smashed him then smash him again. That's all barbarians understand.'

  Vela was looking from one to the other. His porridge face was stubborn.

  'With respect, sir,' he said to me (but there was no respect in his voice) 'we were warned that this might happen before we left the Weser. Segestes...'

  'Segestes be damned.' That was Ceionius. 'Anything that two-faced German bastard chooses to tell us isn't worth a wet fart.'

  Oho! The crudity was quite deliberate: Ceionius is clever and knows how to steer an argument onto safer ground. Vela, who for a professional soldier is prudish beyond belief, coloured up immediately.

  'Segestes,' he stuttered, 'is a friend to Rome. He has no time for his son-in-law's schemes. If Segestes thought it important enough to warn us that Arminius was plotting treachery then–'

  'Screw Segestes.' Ceionius glanced at Eggius. 'Germans are all alike, Vela. You know that. He probably told us just so we'd follow the cowardly piss-your-pants course you seem to favour.'

  The warlike Eggius rose like a fish to a mayfly.

  'I agree. We've a force five times anything Arminius could field against us and a hundred times better trained and disciplined. Ignore this, General, and we'll be a laughing-stock of the army from here to the eastern frontier. And quite rightly so.'

  'Nevertheless,' I said, my eye upon Vela, 'it would mean a march through unfamiliar territory. And the campaigning season is almost over.'

  'Are we children, to be afraid of the dark and wet?' Eggius the orator loves a fine phrase. 'Would Drusus Caesar have hesitated? Would General Tiberius?'

  'Tiberius would certainly hesitate,' Vela was still punching. 'Tiberius is a soldier. And you do not have to be a child to be afraid of the Teutoburg, especially in winter.'

  I temporised, again with Rome in mind. I must assume that Vela knows nothing, and continue constructing my future defence in the hope that my credibility is not already destroyed.

  'Vela has a point, gentlemen,' I said. 'We must weigh our responsibilities carefully. Think. The campaigning season is over. We are leading our men back into winter quarters. If we are to investigate this matter it will mean a gruelling march late in the season through difficult and potentially hostile territory. The question is, is such a drastic and dangerous course of action justifiable?'

  'Yes!' from Eggius. 'No!' from Vela; both responses immediate and decisively-delivered. I turned to Ceionius, my eyebrows raised; which was the signal my louse and I had agreed on for his set speech.

  'What would be the emperor's word, sir,' he said slowly, 'what would be Rome's word, for a general who put the comfort of himself and his men before the safety and integrity of the empire's borders?'

  I nodded, as did Eggius. 'A fair summing-up,' I said gravely. 'Gentlemen, we have no choice. The threat is there, and despite the undoubted danger as loyal soldiers of Rom
e it is our duty' – I stressed the word – 'not to ignore it.'

  As a piece of ham acting in the good old austere Roman manner I flatter myself that it was perfect. Eggius's lips were set firm, and I swear I saw a manly tear glisten in the young warrior's eye.

  'However.' I paused until I was sure I had their full attention, especially Vela's. This was going to be important. 'I do not intend, gentlemen, to indulge in any death-or-glory heroics.' I let my eyes rest for a moment on Eggius. 'An investigation is one thing, prudence is another. I am quite aware of the difficulties, and of the dangers. We will take the matter as it comes and make our decisions accordingly.'

  'Yet we turn east?' That, of course, from Eggius.

  I was magisterial. 'We turn east.'

  Vela stared at me, his hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Then he turned and, without a word, swept out of the tent.

  18.

  I've got a lot of time for the Floralia. For six days the whole dingy city breaks out into colour like an old oak tree bursting into spring leaf. There're flowers and garlands everywhere, even on the Speakers' Platform in the Market Square and in the dead empty eye sockets of the city tenements. Girls, too; Jupiter knows where they come from but for some reason there're more around, and better lookers, at the Spring Festival than at any other time. And I don't mean whores either although you'll see plenty of them about. People are friendlier. They actually smile at you, genuinely smile, and it's not uncommon to meet someone in the middle of the day who's drunker than you are. Happy-drunk, I mean, not looking for a fight; Flora's a civilised goddess, the kind you wouldn't mind being parked next to at a drinking party. Even some of my father's cronies take the pokers out of their arses and unbend at the Floralia. Some of them. And not all the way. Flora may be a goddess, but even she has her limits.

  I went round to Perilla's early, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and (more to the point) clean-shaven, wearing my best mantle and carrying my party slippers. Callias led me through to the sitting-room.

  By the look of her Perilla was just up. Beautiful as usual but crotchety as hell.

  'Happy Floralia.' I gave her the bunch of flowers I'd had Bathyllus out gathering earlier. Added to all his other accomplishments the little guy weaves a mean garland. She wasn't as impressed as I'd hoped she'd be.

  'I thought I said dinner, Corvinus.'

  'Yeah, well, maybe I'm a bit early but all the same...'

  'Look, I've got several very pressing things to do before I even think in terms of breakfast. Like waking up, for example. So if you'll excuse me...'

  'Oh, come on, Perilla!' I wasn't giving up that easy. 'It's the Floralia! Let's go out somewhere.'

  She looked at me as if I'd suggested a bump-and-grind up the steps of the Capitol.

  'Corvinus,' she said slowly. 'I am married. Nominally so, I grant you, but married nonetheless. Respectable matrons don't go gadding about with young bachelors.'

  'It's a beautiful day outside.'

  'The weather is immaterial.'

  'Separate litters.'

  'Where to? If you were thinking of a mime...'

  'No mime,' I said hastily. Mimes are traditional to the Floralia. Only to the Floralia, and understandably so. What other patron but Flora would allow actors to appear with their faces bare? And not only actors, but actresses? And not only their faces... 'No mime. I give you my solemn oath.'

  I was serious. I'd more sense than to take Perilla to a mime. She was fully capable of standing up at the first blue joke and demanding a public apology from the producer. Getting it, too.

  'So what did you have in mind?' she said after a pause.

  'Just a walk. I thought maybe the Sallust Gardens would be nice.' The Sallust Gardens are on the Quirinal, and they make up one of the most beautiful public parks in Rome. 'Come on, Perilla! Just this once.'

  'Separate litters?' I could see she was weakening.

  'Yeah. Borne by octogenarian eunuchs fitted with blinkers. You have my word.'

  'Just a walk in the Sallust Gardens? You're sure?'

  'I saw the Chief Vestal there the other day. She goes regularly, just for the moral uplift.'

  Perilla was smiling now. Genuinely smiling. I knew I'd won and was trying very hard not to crow about it.

  'All right,' she said. 'Give me a while to do my hair.' There wasn't a thing wrong with it, but I wasn't going to argue. 'Have a seat and I'll tell Callias to bring you some wine. It's not too early for you, I take it?'

  'Just this once,' I said, 'I'll make an exception.'

  I'd been kidding about the octogenarian eunuchs but Perilla didn't seem to mind so long as the other proprieties were observed. The four Sunshine Boys tagged along as well. I drew the line at being beaten up on holiday, and with Perilla in tow I was taking no chances. They shambled along beside the litters, two on each side, flashing their pectorals and mouthing Gallic obscenities at any passer-by who paid us the slightest bit of notice. Most people gave us a wide berth. I didn't blame them.

  We got caught up with the crowds going to watch the Goddess's official procession. I should've thought of that – Flora's temple is just inside the Quirinal Gate – but it was too late to do anything about it. At least with the combined muscle of the litter bearers and my four Gauls we managed to keep the litters side by side so we could talk while the punters broke and flowed round us.

  The crowds fascinated Perilla; but then the poor girl obviously didn't go out much.

  'Why are there so many women?' she asked at one point. 'And so unusually dressed?'

  She was talking about the prostitutes, of course. You get a lot of them gathering in the streets near the temple, and we seemed to be wading through a knot of about fifty, which was too close to one of my favourite fantasies for comfort. Lovely girls some of them too. If Perilla hadn't been there I'd've stopped the litter and taken a couple on board. As it was I was on my best behaviour.

  I told her. She was shocked. 'What, all of them? They're all prostitutes?'

  'Yeah. Well, all the women in men's mantles and make-up, anyway.' I was glad I couldn't see any guys in women's dresses in the crowd because I didn't fancy explaining them to Perilla at all.

  'But there can't be work for all these girls, surely? How do they make ends meet?'

  I bit my tongue. Jupiter, I thought, stand by me now in the hour of my adversity. 'They, uh, they're not all city girls, Perilla. Flora's the prostitutes' patron. They come to Rome from all over at the Spring Festival.'

  'They must be very religious.' Perilla watched solemnly while I tried not to laugh. One of the best-lookers (to my horror I recognised her) slipped through the Gallic lines, planted a smacker just above my left cheekbone and stuck a flower behind my ear.

  'Oh how nice!' Perilla smiled at her. Luckily she hadn't seen what the girl's left hand was up to. 'What a lovely gesture! Corvinus, you're blushing!'

  I managed to toss the girl a silver piece while Perilla wasn't looking. She caught it neatly, blew me another kiss and disappeared back into the crowd.

  Good behaviour's one thing, but I had my reputation to consider.

  We got to the Sallust Gardens without further mishap. I left the litters at the gate and told the Sunshine Boys to follow on discreetly and be ready if I needed them ('You understand “discreetly", boys?' 'Yeah, boss. Soft-soft. No-o-o problem.'). Mind you, that was difficult enough. Half of Rome seemed to have had the same idea as I had and the Gardens were packed. We walked sedately between the lines of plane trees in the direction of the statue of Faunus.

  The place smelt of spring and dry-roasted melon seeds from the hawkers' carts.

  'Would you believe I've never been here before?' Perilla was looking round us with interest. 'The other parks, but not this one. I remember my stepfather taking us to the Pincian once when I was twelve. That must've been at the Floralia too. The year he was sent away.'

  The last thing I wanted to talk about today was Ovid. This was a holiday, after all. I changed the subject.

&nbs
p; 'He was a hypocritical sod, old Sallust,’ I said. ‘My grandfather knew him. He spent a fortune on this place when he owned it and then had the nerve to sit out here and write about how degenerate we modern Romans are.'

  'You must admit it's beautiful, though.' Perilla smiled. 'Surely it was worth the expense?'

  'Tell that to the provincials that the old guy plundered to get the cash.'

  Perilla glanced sideways at me. 'Corvinus, I can't make you out at all sometimes. You come from one of the best families in Rome, but you don't act like an aristocrat. Not any of the ones I know anyway. Whose side are you on?'

  'I'm not on anyone's side.' I pulled a long bit of grass from the edge of the path and chewed on it. 'Because no one's really on my side. You get me?'

  'No, I don't.'

  'It doesn't matter. Look, let's just drop the subject. The Spring Festival's not the time to be serious.'

  'No, please. I'm interested.'

  I threw the grass stem away. 'Okay,’ I said. ‘It's your decision. Take my father, then. Good public speaker. Consul at thirty-three. Successful general, well, pretty successful although he was no ball of fire. One of the committee to look after the Books of Prophecy. Bosom buddies with the emperor. And one of the biggest crawlers you're ever likely to meet outside of Aristotle's Natural History.'

  'So?'

  I stopped and looked at her in amazement. 'You don't see anything wrong in that?'

  'I think you're being a little hard on him. He seems to have done remarkably well.'

  'He's done remarkably well by saying the right things to the right people.'

  'Would you rather he said the wrong things to the wrong people?'