Ovid

6

I didn't go straight home when I left Perilla's. I'd left a signet ring in for repair at Cadmus's in Fox Street off the Saepta, which meant another trip up town. Not that I minded. I liked walking around the city, even in weather like this. Besides, it was an excuse for a stroll through the Subura.

Yeah. I know. That's the sort of remark eager young heirs to the family fortune hope to hear their rich daddies making. It means that the old guys' lids have shaken loose and it's time to call in the lawyers and slap on a certificate of gross mental instability. No one in their right mind walks in Rome if they can avoid it. The crowds are thicker than fleas in a fourth rate whore's mattress, the climate's boiling in summer and freezing in winter, and the streets stink all the year round of effluent, rotten vegetables and everything from cheap incense to dead dogs and month-old fish. And that's just for starters. Step off the main thoroughfares in the poorer districts and you'll find that the more enterprising locals do a line in throat slitting, mugging and purse snatching that has anywhere else in the empire beaten hollow. Keep to the main drag and you've got a better-than-average chance of being hit by something thrown from a tenement. Or, if your luck's really out, even by the tenement itself. Don't laugh. I've seen it happen.

So I like Rome. Sure, it may be a dump outside the bits that old Augustus found brick and left marble, it may stink worse than a wineshop privy in midsummer, but it's got character. Where else could you buy a pitch-black performing midget, have your fortune told by a cheiromantic goat and catch a dose of clap from a female sword-swallower, all within twenty yards?

Like I say, Rome's strong meat. It may hurt you, it may even kill you, but it'll never bore you.

The sky was beginning to cloud over in earnest as I left the slope of the Esquiline and cut down into the Subura. This was pretty bad news. Most people who have business in that part of town can't afford raincoats let alone litters, and the chances of finding a litter-team for hire between Pullian Street and the Argiletum is about as likely as seeing the Wart do a clog-dance for coppers on the Speakers' Platform. I wrapped my cloak tighter round me, pulled up the hood to keep the wind out of my eyes, and tried to think about something other than the soaking I was going to get between here and the Saepta.

Like what I'd got on Ovid so far.

Point one. The reason for his exile was no secret among what I'd call the arse-lickers: people like my father and Crispus who were on the inside of government and knew where all the dirty linen hung. If they were terrified to open their prim little mouths in case someone slapped them shut then whatever the secret was, ancient history or not, it was pretty sensitive.

Point two. Ovid hadn't done any of the things that usually get you exile. Or at least claimed he hadn't. Not treason, not murder, forgery or fraud. And that, like I'd said to Perilla, didn't leave much. Sure, he could've been lying but I didn't think so. After all why take the trouble to deny what no-one was accusing him of unless he'd got a genuine axe to grind? Also Perilla had said that she and her mother still kept up the villa to the north of Rome, which meant that the emperor hadn't confiscated Ovid's property. If the crime was really serious then that didn't make sense either.

Which brought me to the last point. Not only had Ovid not been charged with any of the crimes he'd listed, he hadn't been charged at all. No charge, no trial, no nothing, just a summons to a private interview with the emperor and a one way ticket by imperial decree. That sort of thing just didn't happen with a run-of-the-mill crime. More, Augustus had made it clear that whatever the guy had done to put his imperial nose out of joint the subject was closed. No questions answered, no explanations given. Stranger still, when the Wart came to power and some of the biggest men in Rome begged him to cancel the edict or at least move the poor bastard to somewhere the locals didn't trail their knuckles while they walked, Tiberius had refused. No pardon, no explanation, just that straight, bald refusal. And now the guy was dead the emperor wouldn't even make space in Italy for his bones.

Big league stuff. And weird by any standards.

I crossed over at the junction of Pullian with Orbian and took in a family of street musicians. They were good; grampa on finger cymbals, dad on hand drum and mum on the double flute, with a kid in a dirty brown tunic standing behind them picking his nose for light relief. The daughter — no kid by any standards — was collecting coppers. She wore a short girdle with bells, a leather bra, and an expression of total headbanging boredom. In that weather she must've been freezing. When she came round to me I slipped a silver piece under each bra cup, patted her rump and left quickly before Pa caught on to why she was grinning. Spread a little sunshine, that's my motto. Besides, she had marvellous tits. Then I cut down the first of the little alleyways that would take me through the heart of the district and, eventually, to Suburan Street itself.

So what had Ovid done? All I had to go on was his own weird, coy statement that he'd seen something he shouldn't have and hadn't told anyone about it. Not exactly earthshaking stuff, and not the sort of thing to get you permanent exile in a godforsaken hole like Tomi. Let alone stop your kin from bringing back your ashes, which was something completely off the wall. Sure, the State might take a chunk or two out of the guy's kin if his crime had been bad enough, but that was a different thing to stopping them bury his bones when he coughed it. Whatever Ovid had been guilty of, this sustained knee-jerk reaction was unique, totally savage and just plain inexplicable.

Okay, so where did that leave us? With some sort of scandal, obviously, that Augustus wanted buried deep and fast and permanent. A scandal was the only thing that would explain the secrecy and the lack of formal charges, and it could be private or political or both. My money was on the private. Ovid was no politician and like I said he'd had the moral reputation of an alley-cat. Also once he'd packed him off to Tomi Augustus had pulled his poems off the shelves of the city's public libraries. I knew that from personal experience. I remember a few years later as a spotty kid trying to get my lecherous hands on his Art of Love — a step-by-step guide to seduction- and being sent off with a flea in my ear and a moth-eaten copy of Cato's Farming Is Fun. So. A social scandal involving sex, close enough to home for Augustus to take it as a personal insult, serious enough to get the guy exile and a strict warning to keep his mouth shut even where his wife and daughter were concerned. And it must've happened about ten years ago, about the time when…

When…

I stopped so suddenly that the stout woman a step or two behind me behind me piled into my back. The pole she was carrying with two chickens dangling upside down from it caught me a stinger on the side of the head.

'You want to watch where you're going, sonny?' she said; or words to that effect. The Subura's no place to pick up refined diction.

'Yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry.' I was still dazed; and not because of the pole. The old girl gave me a funny look and moved off. The chickens weren't too pleased either.

Julia! The Julia scandal!

I couldn't remember all the details — I'd only been a kid at the time, hardly into double figures — but I knew the gist. It'd happened that same year, I was sure of that. Augustus's granddaughter Julia had been convicted of adultery and exiled to some flyspeck of an island out in the sticks. And Julia, when she hadn't been humping half of Rome, had been one of Ovid's literary patrons…

I carried on walking, my head still buzzing like a beehive. I had to be right. It couldn't be a coincidence, not the two exiles coming so close together. If Ovid had been screwing Julia and the emperor had found out then Augustus had good reason to blow his toupe. The only problem was that I was sure some other guy had been named as having his hand down the lady's pants. Named and charged, publicly. And if Julia had been two-timing him with Ovid then why not say so? Why not charge Ovid as well and forget all this cloak-and-dagger crap? And if there was no cover-up involved, and Ovid simply knew Julia was on the job and didn't tell, then why not charge him publicly with that and be done with it?

Sure, I know. None of this made enough sense to fry an anchovy in. But at least it was a start; whatever Ovid's crime was it had to be connected with the Julia affair. Had to be! It was only a question of fitting things together. More information would help, sure. The name of the adulterer for a start and what had happened to him. If I could just find someone who knew the facts and was willing to tell me then maybe I could take it from there. The first part was easy. The second…

Yeah. The second part was the killer. The way people had been avoiding me recently had me sniffing down my tunic for body odour. If I was right about the Julia connection and started asking questions that involved embarrassing answers then things could get worse.

I felt the first drops of rain as I reached Suburan Street. The Saepta was still a long way off, I was beginning to regret my detour and the clouds were heaping up like a herd of elephants mating. Maybe, I thought, it might be a good idea to make a dash for Augustus Square. There were always plenty of litters touting for business there, but if the rain came on in earnest they'd all be snapped up. The streets around the Square itself were always packed and I wasn't the only pedestrian without a hat or a raincoat with money in my purse. There was just a chance, though, that I might catch a litter-team before that. Suburan Street's a main thoroughfare and although it's still far from being a high class area you sometimes strike lucky. I turned round and looked behind me to check for anything heading in my direction.

Fifty yards back a man was crossing over to my side of the road. He was the sort of guy you can't help but notice, half the size of Augustus's mausoleum and twice as ugly, but without the gorilla-like shamble some really big men have. A professional sword-fighter, maybe. Or an ex-soldier. Someone, anyway, who knew his size was the other guy's problem. I saw what was going to happen before it did; in that part of town you can't make any sudden changes of direction if you want to stay popular, and even crossing the street takes time. The big guy went slap into an oil-seller, knocking him flying and drenching half a dozen peaceful citizens with lamp oil. If I'd had time I would've stuck around to broaden my vocabulary but the rain was getting heavier and the sky directly above me was as black as a Nubian's backside.

I'd got about three more yards when the storm broke; and as storms go it was a beaut. Rain lancing down out of the black sky hissed and bounced on the pavement like hail and swarmed into the gutters. Suddenly the street was a muddy brown river full of cabbage leaves, drowned insects and mule droppings. Everyone ran for cover, me included; only there was nowhere to run. My cloak was soaked through in seconds. My ears were full and my eyes were full, and it was sheer luck that I spotted the open doorway to a potter's shop. I shot inside like a rabbit going to ground

The shop was dim and quiet after the chaos outside. I stood for a moment cursing and trying to wipe the rainwater out of my eyes with my already sodden cloak. Then I turned round.

The big guy who had flattened the oil-seller was standing between me and the doorway. Right between me and the doorway. And that, in the Subura, meant trouble.

I looked round. The shop was empty. Great. All the potters' shops in Rome to choose from and I had to pick the lemon.

'Your name Valerius Corvinus?' You could've taken the guy's accent and hung your boots on it. A foreigner. German, maybe.

'What's that to you?' Trying not to make it too obvious I got my hand round the hilt of the little insurance policy I keep strapped to the underside of my left forearm.

He stepped forwards without answering. Like I say, he was no beauty. Now my eyes were used to the darkness I could see the deep well healed scar down the left side of his face. Part of his left ear was missing, too. I'd been right. Sword-fighter or soldier, he'd been in scraps before.

'Hey, you know what you remind me of, pal?' The dagger was free now but I didn't show it. I needed all the edge I could get. 'The gorilla they keep in Maecenas Gardens. Only he's better looking.

Subtle as a brick, sure; intentionally so. But if I thought I could goad him into doing something he'd come to regret I was mistaken. He only grinned at me revealing teeth like the broken tombstones on the Appian Way.

'You're Corvinus all right,' he said. 'I've been told to have a word with you, friend.'

I drew the dagger out all the way but he didn't move or even blink. That worried me like hell. Sure, I didn't expect the guy to run screaming out of the shop but a certain shift towards caution on his part would've helped my ego. As it was he still had the edge. I took a sharp look behind me and to either side to check the ground I had to work with. Could be better, could be worse. On the plus side the place was a poky little hole with cooking pots stacked up on shelves around the walls. No space to manoeuvre so he'd have to come at me from the front. On the other hand it was one of these closed-off street-side rooms either side of the main entrance you get in most city houses, that the house owners rent out to small retailers. So no back door, right? If I wanted to walk out of this it'd have to be over Big Fritz's dead body. Which was, as they say, a real bummer.

I held the knife out in front of me flat like I'd been taught, the point waving from side to side across the width of his belly, balanced myself on the balls of both feet and waited for him to come at me. That would show him he was messing with a professional. He gave me a look like I was something with six legs he'd just found in his salad, turned his head aside and spat.

'Put the knife away,' he said. 'You won't need it. This is just a warning.'

'Yeah? Who from?' I lowered the dagger but didn't sheathe it. I wasn't that crazy. I'd already checked out his hands. They were both in view and they were empty; but then again they were the size of shovel blades and whatever this guy did for a living it wasn't play the harp. A clout with one of these would send you straight through the other end of next year's Winter Festival.

'None of your business.' He was still completely relaxed. It takes one of two qualities to look that cool when you're unarmed and facing a cornered man with a knife: either total headbanging stupidity or absolute confidence that you can take the bastard without breaking sweat. And Big Fritz for all his beer-and-barley-bread accent was no headbanger. 'You're being warned to stop asking questions. Do what you're told or you'll get hurt.'

'So what's Tiberius got against a dead poet, then? Or is the boil on his backside just playing him up too much?' Yeah. Cocky as hell. I should've known better.

'I told you,' he said. 'You ask too many questions. Leave well alone. And just to make sure you get the point…'

I'd been watching his eyes and I swear he didn't signal the move. One minute he was standing facing me, the next instant he was a forward-leaping blur. My hand with the knife came up years too late. His fingers closed around my wrist, pulling down and twisting outwards. The dagger rang on the stone floor and what felt like half the Capitoline Hill collided with my ribs as his shoulder thudded into my chest. Then I was flying backwards against a wall that broke and gave and showered me with a tumbling hail of earthenware.

By the time I'd picked myself up battered and bruised but with nothing broken but my pride Big Fritz had left.

So we were playing for real now. I was tempted to give it up then and there. Sure I was. For about fifteen seconds, while I shook the remains of half a dinner service out of my ears. Then the old Messalla blood began to stir, the legacy of twenty generations of arrogant straight-nosed patrician bastards who'd get up from their deathbeds just to spit in an enemy's eye, and I knew that I couldn't do it. I had to see it through if it killed me.

If it killed me. Yeah, and it well might, if today was any sample. I knew that. But next time I'd be better prepared.