Ovid (Marcus Corvinus Book 1)

by David Wishart

  'He could've escaped.'

  Agron shook his head. 'Not likely. That bastard didn't escape, not the way you mean. The Germans let him go. And there's only one reason they should do that I know of.

  'Because that was the agreement,' I said softly. 'Because he was on their side.'

  Scylax's mouth twisted. 'So you finally got your fourth man, Corvinus. Congratulations.'

  I wasn't ready yet to put the finger on Asprenas, not in Agron's hearing, anyway. Still, I was feeling pretty sick. I needed proof desperately and for about five minutes I'd had it. I'd had Fat Face, or whoever, cold. We could've made Ceionius talk, and instead the bastard goes and gets himself killed...

  'No,' I said. 'The fourth guy wasn't Ceionius. But I'll bet you a gold piece to a used corn plaster he was working for him and being well-paid into the bargain. After all, why shut yourself away in a Suburan tenement unless...' I stopped as the enormity of my stupidity hit me.

  Perilla!

  The place stank of cabbage water, soiled nappies and poverty. I took the stairs two at a time. Like all tenement staircases they were filthy with urine and worse, and the walls were scarred with knife marks and savage, hopeless graffiti.

  There were four doors on the second floor.

  'Which one?' I yelled. Daphnis was half a flight behind me, and blowing like a bellows. As he cleared the last step I grabbed him by the neck of his tunic. 'Daphnis! Which sodding flat?'

  He knocked my hand away. Maybe he'd've landed me one, but Scylax and Agron were close behind him and he thought better of it. Instead he simply pointed.

  The door was locked. I threw myself against it and almost dislocated my shoulder. Agron raised his hobnailed boot and drove hard at the crosspiece above the lower panelling where the lock was. The door burst open and we piled inside.

  Nothing. The room was empty except for a cot against the wall, a rickety ironwork table, a cheap wooden stool and – incongruously – a bookcase. No tied-up prisoner. No Perilla.

  No Perilla...

  'Never mind, Corvinus.' Scylax was frowning. 'Maybe we can find...'

  Agron had raised his hand.

  'Listen!'

  Something was making a regular bumping noise. Bump...bump...bump. The noise was coming from behind the bookcase. I rushed over to it, got my fingers into the crevice between bookcase and wall, and heaved.

  It came back easily. A long erect bundle swathed in a sheet and with rags tied round its upper part toppled out of the cupboard which it fronted. Daphnis, who was close behind me, caught it before it could fall and damage itself.

  Carefully, carefully, I unwound the rags, revealing a red, very indignant face.

  'Well, you took your time!' Perilla snapped.

  I took her home. I won't say any more about that day because it isn't relevant and concerns no one but ourselves.

  I took her home.

  40.

  We were in the garden having a late breakfast the next morning when my father came round. I'd thought he'd be embarrassed finding Perilla there, but he didn't seem surprised at all.

  'I heard that the Lady Rufia was back safely,' he said, 'so I stopped by to offer my congratulations.'

  Perilla gave him one of her dazzling smiles. 'That was kind of you, Valerius Messalinus.'

  I signalled Bathyllus to lay another place, but my father stopped him. 'No, Marcus. I only called in to introduce myself. And possibly to learn first hand what happened.'

  'You sure you want to know?' I said. Even to me the words sounded sharper than I'd meant.

  'Yes, son.' My father sat down on the chair Bathyllus had brought. 'I would like to know. Unless the Lady Rufia doesn't wish me to, of course.'

  'Not at all.' Perilla's hand briefly touched my arm. 'Marcus is being his usual boorish self. Aren't you, Marcus?'

  I flushed. She was right. After all he'd done to help the guy deserved better.

  'Yeah,' I said. 'Sorry, Dad.'

  'Not that there's much to tell.' Perilla scooped honey onto a piece of bread. She was looking okay this morning, a lot better, I knew, than I was. Glowing almost. Maybe she should get herself kidnapped and shut up behind a bookcase in a Suburan tenement more often. 'It was my own stupid fault. I know the way home from Aunt Marcia's perfectly well, but it still didn't occur to me that the litter team were making a detour until it was too late.'

  'They took her towards the Caelian.' I pitted an olive. 'It's more open there. Then they jumped her and tied her up.'

  'You mean your own slaves did this?' I could understand the incredulity in my father's voice. If you can't trust your own slaves then who can you trust? Besides, for a slave to turn against his master is a short-cut to the arena.

  'They weren't family slaves, not really. We'd only had them for about a month. Callias bought them.'

  'Who from?'

  Yeah, good question. That was an angle I hadn't thought of. I shot my father an approving look.

  'I don't know,' Perilla said. 'I could ask.'

  'Do that.' My father was frowning. 'I'd be willing to bet the first approach came from the seller. And that the offer was a good one.'

  'You think they were planted, Dad?'

  'It would seem a safe assumption, yes. Although I doubt if the slaves themselves will ever be found to verify it.'

  That made sense, too. The guys would either have been hustled away from Rome with fake manumission certificates and money in their pouches or, which was more likely, they were at the bottom of the river with their feet in concrete sandals. I hoped it was the latter.

  'Anyway,' Perilla went on, 'they took me to the tenement and handed me over to Ceionius. Not that I knew his name then, of course.'

  'Ceionius?' my father said.

  'Yeah, that's right,' I said. 'Ring a bell?'

  'Varus's Ceionius?'

  'Bull’s-eye.'

  'But that's impossible! Ceionius is dead. He died with Varus in the massacre.'

  'The rumour was exaggerated. He's been hiding out in the Subura.'

  'Why should he do that? Oh, I know Augustus wouldn't have let him back to Rome, but if his only crime was cowardice then–'

  'It wasn't,' I said bluntly. 'The guy was a traitor. He was working with the Germans.'

  'What?'

  'The massacre was planned. And not just by Arminius. There were Romans involved too. Bigger Romans than that bastard.'

  I'd rocked him, obviously. He genuinely hadn't known anything about this, and I was glad of it.

  'Marcus, you can't be serious,' he said. 'You're claiming that the Varian disaster was engineered?'

  'That's right. It's pretty complicated and I don't understand it all myself yet but basically Varus had done a deal with Arminius.'

  'Varus had done a deal? I thought you said Ceionius was the traitor.'

  'He was. Or one of them, anyway. But Varus was involved too, only he was set up. At least I think so. Like I said, it's complicated.'

  'Where's Ceionius now?' My father was on his feet. I'd never seen him so shocked, or so angry. 'The emperor will want to know about this. Come with me and I'll–'

  'Hang on, Dad. There's no point. He's dead. Really dead this time.'

  'You killed him? Marcus, that was stupid. Monumentally stupid!'

  I glanced at Perilla. I hadn't told her how Ceionius had died. 'We never touched the guy. He tried to escape and there was an accident.'

  My father sat down again, slowly.

  'Tell me about it,' he said.

  I told him. The whole story, from Bathyllus's finding of the note to the shambles in the alleyway. By the time I'd finished his lips were set in a tight line.

  'And so you decided to ask an ex-gladiator trainer and a couple of slaves for help rather than come to me,' he said. 'Thank you, Marcus. Thank you very much.'

  'Agron isn't a slave. And Scylax has some of the best contacts in Rome.' Both true, but that wasn't the point, and I knew it.

  'Marcus did what he thought was best.' Perilla laid a hand on
my arm. 'Besides, there wasn't time.'

  My father sighed.

  'No, I suppose not,' he said. 'You did very well, son, in any case. You deserve praise, not blame.'

  I felt myself flush. 'I'm sorry, Dad. You're right. Maybe I should've gone to you first.'

  He smiled gently. 'Two apologies in one morning. You're improving.' I said nothing. 'So tell me more about Quinctilius Varus. You say he was intriguing with Arminius. I find that difficult to believe. Where did your information come from?'

  I hesitated.

  'Go on, Marcus. Tell him. Please.' Perilla's fingers tightened on my arm. 'He only wants to help.'

  'Okay,' I said. 'I got it from Quinctilia.'

  'Varus's sister?'

  'Yeah. She had it from his deputy Vela, who passed it on to Nonius Asprenas.' My father had been rubbing his chin with his right hand. At the name his hand paused. 'You know the guy?'

  'Oh, yes. I know Nonius Asprenas.' There was an odd catch to my father's voice that I didn't quite understand. 'And what precisely did Quinctilia say her brother had done?'

  'I told you. She claimed he was taking bribes from the Germans.'

  'In exchange for what?'

  'Running the province down. Discouraging expansion north of the river. Turning a blind eye to what Arminius was up to. There was more to it than that, but that's the general idea.'

  My father leaned forward and placed his fingertips together as if I were one of his legal clients and we were discussing a case.

  'That Varus was open to bribery is certainly credible,' he said. 'Especially after the Syrian affair. You know about Syria, I suppose?'

  'When he was nearly prosecuted for extortion?'

  'Indeed. Nearly is the word. If it hadn't been for his connections – and of course the fact that Syria is an imperial province outwith their jurisdiction – the Senate would have roasted him. As it was he was lucky to be given another chance; a fact that he himself would appreciate. I wouldn't dismiss the charge in principle, but I seriously doubt if Varus would have thought it worth the risk under the circumstances. If Augustus had ever found out that he was taking bribes, or even had reasonable grounds for suspicion, he wouldn't have lived to spend them.'

  'Maybe that's so,' I said, 'but the way I think it worked it would've been pretty tempting. Varus might even have squared what he was doing with the emperor in the end. In any event the guy was guilty as hell. I've seen the proof myself.'

  My father sat up. 'What kind of proof?'

  'His own letter to Arminius giving him the details of his march from the Weser to the Rhine, including the detour through the Teutoburg. Route, dates, disposition of forces, the lot. And one more thing. He mentions the ambush.'

  'What?'

  'Sure. That's the point. Varus knew Arminius was going to hit him. Not as hard as he did, but still that there would be an attack.'

  'Where did Quinctilia get this letter?'

  'I told you. From Vela. He sent it to Asprenas by courier just before the army set out.'

  I felt him stiffen; and when he spoke again his voice was strangely quiet. 'You say Varus wrote this letter? You're sure of that?'

  'Yeah, that's right, Dad. But I think Asprenas–'

  'And Quinctilia herself is sure it's genuine?'

  'Sure she's sure. She confirmed the handwriting herself.'

  'She told you this as well? That she herself, personally, had recognised the writing as her brother's?'

  I frowned. 'Look, what's all this about? Are you saying the old girl was lying?'

  He shook his head. 'Oh, no. She wasn't lying. Or not intentionally so, anyway. You say you talked to her yourself? And you didn't notice?'

  'Notice what?'

  'Marcus,' my father said gently, 'the Lady Quinctilia is almost totally blind.'

  I stared at him as the last piece of the mosaic in my head slid into place with an almost perceptible click. I remembered the pale eyes peering at me from close up when we had first met; remembered the way she'd stared past me, how she'd needed Asprenas's help to walk...

  'How long?' I said.

  My father understood the question, and its implications. 'I don't know. Her sight has been failing for years. Perhaps ten years ago it would have been good enough to read a letter and recognise the handwriting, although personally I doubt it.'

  Not this handwriting. I remembered how cramped it had been and how close together the lines were. Still, that was something I could check for sure. Agron would be able to tell me; he'd been connected with the family for years. I yelled for Bathyllus, and he came out of the house at a run.

  'You know where Agron hangs out, Bathyllus? The big Illyrian?'

  'Not exactly, sir. But I can always ask at the Lady Quinctilia's. They'll–'

  'No. No. Don't do that. He's got a blacksmith's shop in the Subura. Metalsmiths' Row, near the Shrine of Libera. You know it?'

  Bathyllus sniffed. 'Not intimately, sir, no.'

  Jupiter! The little guy was as big a snob as Callias! 'Find it. Find Agron. I don't care if you have to comb the whole of the Subura for him, just find him, okay? And don't go near the Lady Quinctilia's place for any reason. You understand?'

  'Yes, sir,' Bathyllus said stiffly. 'Of course. Is there a message?'

  'No message. Just a question. Get the answer and bring it back to me. Ask him when the Lady Quinctilia began to lose her sight.'

  'Couldn't I send someone else, sir? After all, the Subura isn't exactly–'

  'Beat it!'

  He beat it. I turned to face my father.

  'You're right, Dad,' I said. 'Quinctilia just said the handwriting was genuine. She never said she'd authenticated it personally. Which means that someone else did, someone she trusted absolutely.'

  'Asprenas,' Perilla said.

  I nodded. 'Asprenas. We've only his word for it that he got the letter from Vela. And if no one else but Quinctilia has seen it then it could easily be a forgery.'

  My father cleared his throat.

  'Quite possibly,' he said. 'It would not, at any rate, be the first that Nonius Asprenas was guilty of.'

  Got the bastard!

  'Tell us,' I said.

  41.

  My father didn't look at me. Instead, he picked up an olive from the plate in front of him and began carefully to cut the stone out with the point of a knife. I understood very clearly what was happening. Asprenas was one of the inner circle: good family, well-connected. Guys like him were immune to criticism, to outsiders at least, and here I was an outsider. Marcus Valerius Messalla Messalinus was about to do the unthinkable: break the unwritten code that demanded that the circle protect its own.

  'The rumours began just after he got back from Germany,' he said. 'Oh, they had no connection with his conduct during the campaign. In that sense he was a hero. He'd done all they say he did, brought his legions back in time to stop the Germans crossing the river and breaking the frontier. No-one ever accused him of not being brave, or resourceful, or a good soldier.' The stone came free. My father set down the gutted olive, picked up another and repeated the same slow, careful process. 'That was when Asprenas began to produce certain documents. Bequests in the form of cash and property that he claimed had been made by colleagues who had died in the massacre. Nothing very big, taken individually. Taken together they represented quite a tidy sum.'

  I remembered Agron's blacksmith's shop; the one that hadn't cost Asprenas anything because he'd inherited it from a dead friend. 'And these documents were forged?' I said.

  'It was...suggested.' My father was the perfect lawyer. 'Strongly suggested, in some cases. But in no case did the next-of-kin know anything about the bequests previous to Asprenas's lodging of his claim.'

  That made sense. How the bastard had expected to get away with it altogether I couldn't imagine. Or maybe he'd just gambled – rightly, as it turned out – that his military reputation would protect him.

  'I should say, of course, that no formal charges were made,' my father went o
n. 'If the documents were forgeries they were virtually perfect, and as a result although there were several informal challenges in the event they came to nothing.'

  'But the rumours persisted?'

  'The rumours persisted. Have persisted.'

  'And the only guys who know the truth are lying unburied on the wrong side of the Rhine.'

  'Indeed.'

  'So what kind of money are we talking about?'

  'Taken together, the bequests must have totalled two or three million.' I whistled. That sort of fraud was major league stuff. I knew a dozen young rakes who'd sell their grandmothers to a waterfront whoremaster for half the amount. 'Mind you, Marcus,' my father set the knife down on the table, 'I'm not saying that proceedings should have been initiated. But the connections with your incriminating letter are, shall we say, significant.'

  'In other words everyone knows Asprenas is a crook and a forger but no one can prove it. Or wants to prove it.'

  Dad didn't answer; which was an answer in itself.

  'He may be a crook,' Perilla said. 'But is he a traitor?'

  'Yes. He has to be.'

  'Oh, come on, Marcus! You'll have to do better than that!'

  'Especially if you want to take this to the emperor,' my father added. 'Asprenas is Tiberius's man. More than that, he's useful: an established figure, a proven administrator, a military success. Tiberius wouldn't want to lose him and he certainly wouldn't condemn him without very firm proof. Yes, Tiberius will give you a fair hearing, Marcus, I guarantee that; but I tell you now that he'll ask for more than your opinion and a mishmash of unsupported theory. He'll need a properly presented legal case. Have you got one?' Then, when I hesitated: 'Well, son? Have you?'

  Put up or shut up, his voice said. I temporised.

  'Dad, we talked about keeping back information once. When I asked you about Julia. You remember?'

  'Yes, of course. I told you that responsibility meant knowing when not to pass on information where it would cause more harm than good.'

  'Yeah, Right. Well, I'm really going to make your day. I'm going to apologise a third time. You were right. I can't take this to the Wart, not unless I have to. It'd cause more trouble than it's worth.'